THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


VOICES     OF    THE    WIND, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


THE 


OICES  OF  THE  WIND, 


AND 


OTHER     POEMS. 


P.   FISHE    REED. 


CHICAGO: 

E.    B.    MYERS    AND    CHANDLER, 

87,  WASHINGTON  STREET. 

1868. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

P.    FISHE   REED, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Northern  District  of  Illinois. 


CAMBRIDGE  : 

PRESS      OF      JOHN      WILSON      AND      SON. 


FITZ   HUGH   LUDLOW, 

BECAUSE    HIS    HEART    IS    BRIMMING   WITH    THE    LOVE   OF 

ALL   THINGS    LOVABLE,    AND    WITH    CHARITY 

FOR  ALL   THAT   ARE   NOT, 

5T|jts  tribute 

IS    OFFERED    BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

VOICES  OF  THE  WIND 9 

OKKIS-TUN  :  an  Indian  Legend 19 

WACHUSET  :  a  Story 43 

THE  SONG  OF  LIFE 85 

PICTURES  IN  THE  SKY 105 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Dream-World 119 

The  Moonlight  Serenade 128 

Autumn's  Lesson 132 

Idylia 139 

Cambahee 142 

The  Tear-Spirit 145 

Four  Degrees  of  Love 148 

The  Poet-Zone 150 


J5  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

Gloom  and  Bloom 153 

Daisy 155 

Narcissus  and  Photography 158 

Myrene 161 

Summer  Morning 163 


SONGS. 

Music  of  the  Drum 169 

The  Old  School-House 172 

The  Spirit  Bride 177 

Love's  Symbols 180 

Emblems  of  Liberty 183 

The  Temple  of  Beauty 186 

Linden  Bowers 189 

The  Picture  that  hangs  on  the  Wall .  192 

The  June  and  the  Moon 195 

Tempus  Fugit 197 


VOICES   OF  THE   WIND. 


VOICES    OF   THE   WIND. 


ROM  out  the  Boreal  circle,  from  the  valley  of  the 

dew, 

From  the  clouds  of  sapphire  glory  in  the  empy 
rean  blue, 

Cometh  the  gentle  zephyr-wind  upswelling  from  the  plain, 
Low   humming,   with    its    odorous    breath,    the    summer's 

sweet  refrain. 
It  is  coming  with   a   lightsome   step   among   the   smiling 

flowers, 

Softly  weaving  song  and  beauty  into  all  the  glowing  hours  ; 
It  dallies  with  the  daisy,  as  it  feeds  upon  the  light, 


12  VOICES    OF   THE   WIND. 


And  pets  the  peerless  pansy  through  the  silence  of  the 
night ; 

It  creeps  upon  the  water-cress  that  nods  beneath  the  hill, 

And  trails  its  yellow  tresses  in  the  ripples  of  the  rill ; 

It  sleeps  upon  the  pensive  plain,  where  broods  the  turtle 
dove,  — 

Where  the  rose  and  lily  listen  to  the  wild-bee's  hum  of 
love; 

It  wanders  over  all  the  land,  and  dimples  all  the  sea, 

And  tips  the  lip  of  the  loving  one,  and  brings  the  kiss  to 
me. 

O  wooing  Wind,  O  winsome  Wind,  blow  softly  o'er  the 
sea, 

And  hasten  the  ship  of  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home 


In  waving  undulations,  now,  it  skims  the  waters  o'er, 
And  broods  upon  the  diamond  sand  that  sparkles  on  the 
shore ; 


VOICES    OF    THE    WIND.  13 

Its  breathes  its  fervent  melody  through  all  the  living  air, 
And  fans  the  cheek  of  beauty  that  is  present  everywhere ; 
It  fans  alike  the  high  and  low,  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
And  hums  the  hymn  of  Liberty  to  every  listening  ear ; 
And  all  the  living  things  of  earth  reach  up  their  lips  of  love, 
To  kiss  the  wooing  zephyr-wind  that  gently  floats  above  ; 
And  love  and  life  are  mated,  under  all  the  azure  sky, 
As  they  listen  to  the  music  of  the  zephyr's  lullaby,  — 
To  the  wily,  wooing,  winsome  Wind  that  wanders  every  way, 
So  softly  sighing  with  the  soul  through  all  the  summer  day  ; 
The  gentle  Wind,  that  wafts  the  stately  ship  upon  the  main, 
That  is  freighted  with  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home 

again. 

O  wily  Wind,  O  winsome  Wind,  blow  kindly  o'er  the  sea, 
And  waft  the  ship  of  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home  to 

me  ! 

Oh,   listen  to   the   Borean  breeze  that  sweeps  across  the 
plain  ! 


14  VOICES    OF    THE    WIND. 

It  is  drinking  up  the  zephyrs  as  the  ocean  drinks  the  rain ; 
It  is  coming  with  a  fuller  tone,  that  swells  upon  the  air, 
Like  a  million  mingled  voices  that  are  whispering  of  de 
spair  ; 
And  the  troubled  clouds  are  gathering,  at  the  tempest-king's 

command, 
While  strange  and  fearful  shadows  weirdly  skim  across  the 

land  ; 

It  revels  in  the  lily-beds,  where  erst  the  zephyr  slept, 
And  scatters  into  silver  spray  the  dews  the  night  hath  wept ; 
And  to  and  fro  the  roses  sway,  and,  through  the  solemn  dell, 
It  rudely  rocks,  in  wanton  way,  the  tiny  lily-bell ; 
It  hails  the  bending  forest,  and  the  creaking  trees  reply, 
While  the  pallid  leav£S  are  whispering  their  terrors  to  the 

sky ; 

It  swells  the  yielding  canvas  that  so  proudly  spans  the  main, 
And  gloats  upon  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home  again. 
O  weary  Wind,  O  dreary  Wind,  blow  lightly  o'er  the  sea, 
And  peril  not  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home  to  me ! 


VOICES    OF    THE    WIND.  15 

Oh,  listen  to  the  wailing  Wind,  that  fills  the  panting  air 
With  furious  diapason  tones  that  tell  of  wild  despair ! 
It  is  coming,  with  a  sturdy  step,  across  the  pallid  plain  ; 
It  is  breaking,  into  troubled  waves,  the  broad  and  swelling 

main  ; 

It  is  bearing  on  its  bosom  that  ominous  refrain 
Of  the  rumbling,  roaring  harbinger  that  goes  before  the 

rain. 
The  traveller  looks  askant  the  sky,  and  reads  the  tale  of 

woe ; 

The  startled  herds  upon  the  hills  rush  wildly  to  and  fro  ; 
The  stately  storm  is  marching  on  with  force  and  fury  rife  ; 
The  elements  are  marshalling  their  cohorts  for  the  strife, 
And  the  lashing,  leaping  lightning  comes  flashing  through 

the  gloom, 

While  the  closing  of  the  darkness  has  the  terror  of  the  tomb. 
O  furious  Wind,  leave  ye  the  sea,  and  rend  the  trembling 

shore, 
And  give  to  me  the  kiss  of  death,  but  touch  his  lip  no  more  ! 


l6  VOICES    OF    THE    WIND. 

O  wanton  Wind,  O  wailing  Wind,  save  ye  the  swelling  sea, 
And  spare,  oh  spare,  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home  to 
me ! 

Oh !  listen  to  the  whirling  Wind,  that  comes  with  battle- 
cry, 

And  scatters  all  the  temples  that  are  tottering  in  the  sky ; 

The  Borean  bells  are  pealing  over  forest,  hill,  and  dell, 

And  all  the  clamorous  elements  with  furious  anger  swell ; 

The  yielding  waves  are  yawning  over  all  the  surging  sea. 

O  God,  protect  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home  to  me  ! 

High  and  higher  swells  the  tumult,  and  the  frantic  heavens 
choke 

With  the  whirling  arid  the  swirling  of  the  tempest- riven 
oak. 

Oh,  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  quivering,  shivering 
gale, 

That  is  roaring,  rushing,  crushing,  screaming,  over  hill  and 
dale! 


VOICES    OF    THE    WIND.  17 

Oh,  the  thunder's  rueful  rattle  !  oh,  the  clang  and  crash  and 

roar 
Of  the  breakers,  as  they  break  and  die,  and  feed  the  hungry 

shore  ! 
There's  a  shivered  ship  a-sinking,  there's  a  hissing  of  the 

spray, 
While,  down  below,  the  yawning  deep  is  yearning  for  its 

prey ! 

0  rushing  Wind,  O  crushing  Wind,  break  not  the  shivering 

sea ! 

1  cannot  lose  the  loving  one  that's  coming  home  to  me. 

Hark,  what  a  shriek  of  sorrow !     It  is  out  upon  the  wave. 

'Tis  the  fearful  voice  of  agony  uprising  from  the  grave ! 

It  is  the  prayer  of  the  loving  one  who  beats  the  foam  in 

vain  ! 

O  God,  protect !  O  wave,  beware  !  O  cruel  storm,  abstain  ! 
Bring  not  upon   my  sorrowing  soul  a  dark  and  nameless 

pain  ; 


iS  VOICES    OF    THE    WIND. 

Bring  not  on  thee,  O  murderous  Wind,  the  cruel  curse  of 

Cain  ; 

Wreck  nature  into  chaos,  but  for  this  bosom  keep 
That  one,  of  all  the  living  dead,  out-tossing  on  the  deep  ! 
Oh,  spare  my  love,  and  spare  this  heart,  that's  surging  like 

the  rain ! 

And  will  that  bosom  never,  never  throb  with  mine  again? 
And  must  the  star  of  hope  go  out,  that  erst  was  over-kind, 
When  we  so  fondly  breathed  our  plight  upon  the  zephyr- 
wind? 
The  watching  waves,  with   hungry    strife,   dart   up   their 

tongues  of  doom, 
While  Death  is  grimly  peering  from  the  lightning-lighted 

gloom ! 
O  rushing  Wind,  O  crushing  Wind,  break  up  the  crumbling 

sea ! 
For  God  has  saved  the  loving  one  that  comes  no  more  to 

me. 


OKKIS-TUN 


AN    INDIAN    LEGEND. 


O  K  K  I  S  -  T  U  N  * 


N  Huron's  mystic  banks,  in  sombre  shade, 

When  winter's  twilight  glanced  upon  the  snow, 
Three  jovial  hunters  had  their  watchfire  made, 
And,  gathering  round  its  warm  and  ruddy  glow, 
Enjoyed  that  comfort  hunters  only  know  : 
With  jest  and  song,  and  with  the  good  canteen 
Which  then  was  pleasure's  boon  and  honor's  show, 
They  wove  their  glee,  the  social  hours  between, 
Nor  recked  if  underneath  the  storm  or  starry  sheen. 

*  Fire-spirit. 


22  OKKIS-TUN. 

There  is  a  glory  in  the  hardihood 
Of  those  old  frontier-hunters  who  could  tread, 
With  fearless  step,  the  forest's  solitude, 
Despite  its  dangers,  and  with  free-will  wed 
Its  gloom  for  worse  or  better.     The  nuptial  bed 
New  softness  got  with  longer  use,  and  dear 
The  dell  where  bear  and  bounding  buck  had  fled  ; 
And  some  fond  memories  linger  round  the  rear 
Of  the  last  century,  and  its  most  bloody  sphere. 

The  hunters  pile  the  wood  until  the  blaze 
Is  flashing  in  the  restless  eyes  that  prowl, 
In  sentry  circles,  in  the  purple  haze, 
Whence  comes  the  sneaking  wolf's  discordant  howl, 
And  the  more  bashful  panther's  modest  growl ; 
While  answers,  from  the  height  of  some  huge  tree, 
The  hollow  hootings  of  the  moody  owl. 
They  chime  a  tuneless  chorus  to  the  glee 
Of  the  undaunted  hunters  in  their  revelry. 


OKKIS-TUN.  23 

The  senior  of  the  party  was  quite  hoary  ; 
His  limping  limbs,  and  scarred  head,  front  and  rear, 
(For  he  had  seen  somewhat  of  frontier  glory,) 
Bore  the  sad  relics  of  a  former  year,  — 
The  pay  and  pension  of  the  pioneer ; 
And  while  the  camp-fire  lights  the  forest  gloom, 
And  while  the  hunters  sip  the  forest  cheer, 
They  press  the  worthy  veteran  to  resume 
The  bloody  chronicles  of  Huron's  day  and  doom. 

Answered  the  old  man,  while  a  careless  sigh 
Escaped  his  bosom  :  From  Superior's  shore 
To  where  the  Alleghanies  climb  the  sky, 
I've  seen  somewhat  of  savage  life  (before 
Civilization,  with  her  sacred  lore, 
Diffused  refinement  through  the  forest  gloom), 
And  in  barbarian  orgies  joined  the  roar 
To  save  me  from  a  quite  unpleasant  doom, 
And  for  a  more  refined  procession  to  the  tomb. 


24  OKKIS-TUN. 

'Twas  said,  that,  many  hundred  moons  ago,  — 
Exactly  when,  tradition  does  not  name, 
But  ere  the  Indian  faced  the  pale-faced  foe,  — 
The  great  Tun-Okkis,  with  a  breath  of  flame, 
Destroyed  alike  the  Huron  and  his  game. 
Their  valiant  warriors  and  their  boldest  braves  ; 
Their  chiefs,  who  boast  such  prowess,  strength,  and  fame, 
Whose  vanquished  foes  would  fill  a  thousand  graves,  — 
All  flee  before  his  wrath,  while  the  whole  nation  raves. 

Though  wily  arts  and  mighty  arms  they  brought, 
Besides  some  sacrifices  to  the  moon, 
Yet  strength  and  stratagem  availed  them  nought  : 
Soon  as  his  thunder-voice  was  heard,  so  soon 
Each  victim  sunk  to  earth,  as  in  a  swoon, — 
A  swoon  of  direful  length  —  for  to  be  brief, 
Whene'er  that  voice  was  heard,  at  night  or  noon, 
Whether  the  forest  game  or  forest  chief, 
His  heart's  blood  did  outpour  to  dye  the  forest  leaf. 


OKKIS-TUN.  25 

Thus  days  passed  on  ;  the  moons  did  wax  and  wane 
And  smile,  although  the  sight  was  so  absurd, 
Of  Huron's  pest  and  his  uncounted  slain. 
At  last,  in  solemn  conclave,  council  heard 
The  brave  ones  of  the  nation,  who  averred 
Their  willingness  to  quench  this  fatal  Fire, 
That  had  their  nation's  bravery  so  slurred  : 
It  was  their  heart's  most  obstinate  desire 
To  hurl  him  in  the  lake,  but  dreaded  most  his  ire. 

It  has  been  told  in  story,  sung  in  song, 
Of  the  fierce  courage  of  the  savage  race : 
To  poets  only  does  the  word  belong  ; 
For  never  beastlier  coward,  or  more  base, 
Did  hurl  the  dart  of  death  with  meaner  grace 
From  skulking  ambush,  than  these  imps  of  hell. 
True  valor  meets  the  danger  face  to  face. 
Courage !  their  traitorous  souls  did  never  swell 
With  flush  of  magnanimity,  I  know  full  well. 

2 


26  OKKIS-TUN. 

An  aged  hero,  chief  of  Huron's  nation, 
With  solemn  voice  then  uttered  his  command  : 
Which  heard,  the  braves  leaped  up  in  wild  elation, 
And  scampered,  screaming,  over  lake  and  land 
With  such  outrageous  roar  that  the  firm  hand 
Of  every  foeman  grasped  his  bow  and  blade 
And  burst  away  ;  new  fire  his  fury  fanned  ; 
And  ere  the  echo's  answering  voice  was  stayed, 
Each  summoned  brave  the  old  chief's  mandate  had  obeyed. 

I've  heard  that  yell,  joined  in  its  chorus  too  ; 
For  to  their  hate  it  was  the  antidote  :  „ 

Yet  my  frail  voice  was  but  the  kitten's  mew, 
When  heard  the  din  of  the  infernal  notes 
Of  clamor  bursting  from  their  savage  throats. 
One  night  a  cat,  with  wounds  all  furious  grown, 
With  little  ceremony  and  the  votes 
Of  all,  upon  my  naked  back  was  thrown, 
That  I  might  better  give  the  horrid  war-whoop's  tone. 


OKKIS-TUN.  27 

In  truth,  I  roared,  —  as  well,  indeed,  I  might  — 
Though  many  scars  had  made  my  back  quite  tough ; 
Yet,  when  I  felt  that  woful  scratch  and  bite, 
I  own  that  one  such  lesson  was  enough 
To  learn,  at  least,  the  war-whoop's  gamut  rough  ; 
But  long  years  after,  when  I  did  firmer  plod 
Along  this  lake  and  underneath  its  bluff, 
Their  heart's  blood  bubbled  where  the  turf  we  trod,  — 
Oh,  then  I  snuffed  sweet  vengeance  from  the  steaming  sod  ! 

Revenge  is  sweet,  and  'tis  a  sweet  revenge 
To  gloat  upon  the  prime  aggressor's  gore. 
Be  this  denied,  'tis  pleasant  to  unhinge 
The  spirit  from  the  body  of  a  score 
Or  two  of  his  own  ilk  ;  nor  keep  in  store 
The  pangs  that  prompt  us  to  avenge  a  wrong ; 
For  thorns  within  the  heart  will  keep  it  sore, 
And  human  passions,  eke,  are  wondrous  strong, 
And  will  demand  the  rights  which  to  our  wills  belong. 


28  OKKIS-TUN. 

For  those  who  draw  from  brute  heart  its  life-blood, 
Sate  their  own  hearts  with  its  familiarity, 
Until  at  last,  as  sterner  grows  their  mood, 
The  play  of  human  blood  is  no  great  rarity. 
In  truth,  we  pioneers  deemed  it  a  charity, 
Did  we  the  red  man's  redder  life  outdrain : 
To  spill  barbarian  blood  is  no  barbarity, 
Since  it  would  float  him  to  a  better  plain, 
And  save  his  sturdy  limbs  from  slavery's  galling  chain. 

And  he  is  not  ignoble  who  would  rather 
Spill  his  life-blood  in  inglorious  fight, 
Than  let  it  creep  for  tyrants,  who  would  gather 
Wealth  and  ease  by  others'  toil.     No  blight 
Of  bondage  blots  his  race.     The  right  of  might  — 
That  self-same  power  that  prompts  each  Indian  soul 
To  be  himself,  and  not  another  —  will  smite 
The  foe,  and  of  his  heart  take  ample  toll 
For  right  of  way  through  realms  his  arms  may  not  control. 


OKKIS-TUN.  29 

I  said  the  warriors  met :  and,  at  the  spot, 
There  towered  above  them,  like  a  statue  vast, 
The  great  Yandochis,  chief  of  Wyandotte, 
Whose  furrowed  brow  was  darkly  overcast 
With  anxious  care,  and  told  the  day  was  past 
When  he  could  wield  the  war-club  ;  yet  could  sway 
The  entire  nation  with  his  guttural  blast 
Of  eloquence,  and  teach  them  how  to  slay 
The  warrior  and  pappoose,  and  bear  their  scalps  away. 

"  O  braves  and  brothers  !  'tis  for  you  to  know 
The  sacred  warnings  of  the  mystic  trance, 
When  Areskoui  *  lifts  the  veil  to  show 
The  blazing  beauty  of  his  countenance. 
Yandochis  answered  to  the  Burning  Glance  : 
Claimed  is  unblemished  chief,  whose  life  is  waning ; 
A  thousand  hearts  his  battle-axe  and  lance 
Have  hushed,  who  boasts  a  hundred  battles'  gaining, 
And  on  his  wigwam  walls  thrice  threescore  scalps  remaining. 

*  The  Great  Spirit. 


30  OKKIS-TUN. 

"  And  there  must  be  a  virgin  of  his  name, 
Whose  spotless  heart  is  pure  as  is  the  light 
Of  holy  Heaven.     The  twain  this  Spirit  Flame, 
In  the  mid-hour  of  a  moonless  night, 
Must  quench  in  this  dark  water.     From  the  height 
That  overhangs  the  lake's  most  northern  shore, 
His  burning  carcass  must  be  hurled.     If  right 
The  deed  be  done,  dwells  Yandot,*  as  of  yore, 
Upon  this  soil ;  else  drinks  the  thirsty  sand  our  gore." 

Yandochis  moved  not  from  his  post-like  posture, 
But  the  keen  glances  of  his  eye  round  shot  •, 

Upon  the  tribe  that  he  was  wont  to  foster, 
And,  lo !  each  lip  was  curled,  each  heart  was  hot, 
Each  muscle  strained  with  vengeance  ;  yet  was  not 
One  warrior  soul  that  dared  the  Okkis'  ire, 
Although  they  feared  no  earthly  arm  one  jot ; 
And  thus  they  spoke  :  "  To  quell  this  foe  of  Fire, 
The  nation  hath  no  twain  that  answereth  Heaven's  desire." 

*  The  ancient  name  of  the  Wyandotte. 


OKKIS-TUN.  31 

"  Behold  thy  chief!  "  Yandochis  cried  :  "  how  vain 
The  hope  of  glory  to  his  heart  must  be ! 
His  wigwam  shows  the  relics  of  the  slain  ; 
And  his  own  daughter,  bright  Alankane, 
The  star-eyed  maiden,  child  of  purity, 
At  whose  strange  birth  the  twinkling  stars  down  came, 
To  bless  and  fit  her  for  her  destiny,  — 
The  Yandot  princess  falters  not  to  aim 
The  daring  death-blow  at  this  shrieking  Spirit  Flame." 

A  brave  then  rushed  the  wondering  warriors  by, 
And  placed  himself  his  mighty  chief  beside. 
Vengeance  was  leaping  from  his  restless  eye, 
And,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  thus  he  cried  : 
"  Alankane  is  pledged  to  be  the  bride 
Of  one  who  never  plights  his  word  in  vain  : 
No  Yandot  warrior's  claim  must  be  denied. 
Let  her  in  peace  in  chieftain's  care  remain, 
Till  her  Wenara  hath  this  flaming  Okkis  slain." 


32  OKKIS-TUN. 

The  chief  was  silent ;  yet  his  stoic  soul 
Scarce  brooked  this  insult  to  his  faith,  in  gleams 
Of  light  direct  from  Heaven.     Such  words  made  roll 
His  eyes  in  frantic  glances  ;  for  his  dreams 
Were  sacred  to  his  soul  as  are  the  beams 
Of  daylight  to  the  daisy.     Dark  suspicion 
Leaps  out  from  every  look,  volcanic  streams 
Upheave  his  quaking  heart,  at  the  derision  ; 
Then  wildly  burst  the  words,  and  this  is  his  decision  : : — 

"  Yandochis'  child,  whose  heart  his  blood  doth  fill, 
Embodiment  of  Heaven's  love,  —  shall  she 
E'er  fail  to  do  great  Areskoui's  will? 
'Tis  his  command  :  Alankane's  must  be 
The  maiden  arm  that  sets  our  nation  free. 
Bring  forth  the  sacrifice  :  let  Yandots  show, 
In  gory  battle  or  in  worship's  glee, 
That  they  their  duty  do,  as  well  as  know, 
And  never  recreant  prove  when  forward  rush  the  foe." 


OKKIS-TUN.  33 

Yandochis'  word  was  law ;  and,  peace  restored, 
A  dog  was  placed  the  veteran  chief  beside, 

.    Who  gloated  on  the  offering  all  adored. 
With  string  of  bark  his  mouth  was  firmly  tied, 
Then  passed  through  flame  until  his  reeking  hide, 
From  drooping  tail  to  fiercely  snarling  snout, 
Was  hairless  as  an  eel.     Thus  deified, 
Was  placed  upon  a  pole,  while  warriors  shout, 

And  chant -their  sonorous  song,  his  blackened  form  about. 

SONG   OF  THE   SACRIFICE. 

i. 

DEATH  to  Tun-Okkis, 

The  thunder-tongued  foe, 
Who  bringeth  Yandochis 

The  flame  of  his  woe  ! 

And  now  shall  arise 
The  smoke  and  the  savor, 
And  we  shall  find  favor 

In  the  sacrifice. 

Dance  to  the  doom  ! 
The  yellow  sun  leers  at  the  gloom, 


34  OKKIS-TUN. 

The  hazy  moon  measures  the  blue, 

And  the  stars  are  true. 
Wa-ho-no-win !  *     Unk-ta-hee,f 
Hear  our  song,  and  set  us  free. 


From  the  heights  of  the  mountain, 

From  the  lake  and  the  wood, 
By  the  tremulous  fountain, 

Where  the  wood-pigeons  brood, 
The  wail  of  the  warrior, 
The  moan  of  the  maiden, 
On  the  breath  of  Kee-way-din,  J 
Is  laden  with  sorrow. 

Dance  to  the  doom  ! 
The  yellow  sun  leers  at  the  gloom, 
The  hazy  moon  measures  the  blue, 

And  the  stars  are  true. 
Wa-ho-no-win  !    Unk-ta-hee, 
Hear  our  song,  and  set  us  free. 


The  bright  eyes  glisten, 
That  shall  set  us  free, 

*  An  exclamation  of  sorrow.  f  The  god  of  battle. 

J  The  north  wind- 


OKKIS-TUN.  35 


Like  the  stars,  when  they  listen 
To  Alankane. 
The  smoke  and  the  flame 
The  wild  dog  is  breathing, 
Up-curling,  upwreathing, 
Is  Manitou's  name. 

Dance  to  the  doom  ! 
The  yellow  sun  leers  at  the  gloom, 
The  hazy  moon  measures  the  blue, 

And  the  stars  are  true. 
Wa-ho-no-win !     Unk-ta-hee, 
Hear  our  song,  and  set  us  free. 


Fair  one  of  Yandochis, 

Thy  spirit  is  strong, 
And  thine  arm,  from  Tun-Okkis, 
Will  free  us  ere  long. 
Be  snake-like  thy  tread, 
And  banish  thy  sorrow, 
And  the  dawn  of  the  morrow 
May  break  on  the  dead. 

Dance  to  the  doom  ! 
The  yellow  sun  leers  at  the  gloom, 
The  hazy  moon  measures  the  blue, 
And  the  stars  are  true. 


36  OKKIS-TUN. 

Wa-ho-no-win !     Unk-ta-hee, 
Hear  our  song,  and  set  us  free. 


In  the  deepest  recesses 
Of  the  surging  lake, 
Where  the  tortoise  caresses 
The  slimy  snake, 
Through  the  sprayey  foam, 
Hurl  this  foe  of  the  forest. 
When  our  need  is  the  sorest, 
Avenge  our  home ! 

Dance  to  the  doom ! 
The  yellow  sun  leers  at  the  gloom, 
The  hazy  moon  measures  the  blue, 

And  the  stars  are  true. 
Wa-ho-no-win !     Unk-ta-hee, 
Hear  our  song,  and  set  us  free. 

VI. 

Then  death  to  Tun-Okkis, 
The  thunder- tongued  foe, 

Who  bringeth  Yandochis 
The  flame  of  his  woe ! 


OKKIS-TUN.  37 


And  now  shall  arise 
The  smoke  and  the  savor, 
And  we  shall  find  favor 
In  the  sacrifice. 

Dance  to  the  doom  ! 
The  yellow  sun  leers  at  the  gloom, 
The  hazy  moon  measures  the  blue, 

And  the  stars  are  true. 
Wa-ho-no-win !     Unk-ta-hee, 
Hear  our  song,  and  set  us  free. 


O  Superstition,  thou  round-eyed  foster-mother 
Of  horrors  all  too  horrid  to  be  spoken ! 
Oh  that  some  mighty  power  thy  curse  could  smother, 
As  thou  hast  smothered  souls,  and  basely  broken 
The  bonds  of  human  peace  !     I  pray  unwoken 
May  be  thy  sleep,  if  thou  shouldst  sleep  ;  yet  never 
Has  prophecy  once  dared  to  give  a  token 
Of  such  blest  time.     No  Archimedean  lever 
Can  lift  the  deep,  dead  weight  that  bears  us  down  for  ever. 


38  OKKIS-TUN. 

The  wild  and  sacrificial  song  is  o'er, 
And  frantic  merriment  begins  to  flow, 
Where  headstrong  vengeance  ruled  the  hour  before  ; 
The  moaning  dog  is  freely  eaten  now,  — 
An  emblem  of  the  mercy  Yandots  show. 
Such  rites  as  these  are  not  the  right  of  way 
To  realms  of  modern  Hurons'  Manitou ; 
But  when  Algonquins  held  despotic  sway, 
In  savage  might,  o'er  tribes  that  since  have  passed  away. 

If  Yandots'  statutes  had  such  horrid  modes, 
As  by  their  vague  tradition  is  related 
In  legends  wild,  they're  banished  from  the  codes 
Of  modern  Hurons,  who  —  though  wisely  hated. 
For  their  blood-loving  souls  are  never  sated  — 
Are  pinks  of  patterns  to  all  brutal  breeds 
Who  meet  them  life  for  life.     So  some  have  prated ; 
Yet,  in  good  sooth,  the  fabled  demon's  deeds 
Of  horror  well  befit  these  fiends  whom  Fury  feeds  ! 


OKKIS-TUX.  39 

When  moody  midnight  spread  her  dusky  pinions, 
In  solemn  silence  over  lake  and  fell, 
The  self-doomed  martyrs,  Heaven's  holy  minions, 
Had  reached,  with  stealthy  step,  the  demon  dell 
Where  slept  this  pest  of  Huron  in  his  cell. 
With  wieldy  war-club,  Yandot's  hoary  sire, 
With  hot  heart-throbs,  which  he  disdained  to  quell, 
Approached  with  awe  the  couch  of  sleeping  Fire, 
To  wreak  upon  his  head  the  injured  nation's  ire. 

A  maiden  arm  arrests  the  fearful  blow  ; 
For  they  must  follow  Heaven's  just  decree, 
And  she  must  deal  the  death  to  Yandot's  foe. 
For  this  bright  star-child,  fair  Alankane, 
Di'ew  from  the  heart  its  life-blood,  just  as  free 
As  love  throbs  from  her  lovers,  when  there  shone 
The  Cupid  daggers  in  her  midnight  e'e. 
In  one  hot,  gory  gush,  one  guttural  groan, 
The  modest  mi^ht  of  that  mild  maiden  arm  was  shown. 


40  OKKIS-TUN. 

Let  poets  prate  about  the  beauteous  squaw, 
Her  magnanimity  and  proud  pomposity, 
Her  soul-lit  eyes  and  chiselled  lips,  and  draw 
Delightful  pictures  of  this  mad  monstrosity  ; 
Yet  if  a  nose  out-bulged  with  animosity, 
And  eye  that  gloats  on  torture,  blood,  and  death, 
And  mouth  whose  breadth  could  munch  your  corporosity 
With  savage  greed,  be  types  of  beauty,  faith ! 
They're  welcome  on  such  brutal  belles  to  waste  their  breath. 

There  is  no  beauty  in  a  wicked  thing ; 
There  is  no  beauty  in  a  selfish  feature  ; 
And  all  such  hideous  symbols  can  but  bring 
Disgust  to  every  honest  heart.     No  creature, 
If  born  of  brute  or  human,  holds  his  nature 
In  borrowed  forms ;  but  like  from  like  is  true 
Of  soul  and  body,  as  it  is  of  each  or 
All  the  things  with  which  the  zones  may  strew 
Tire  earth  :  the  Indian's  soul  and  skin's  alike  in  hue. 


OKKIS-TUN.  41 

No  more  the  weird  Tun-Okkis  cursed  the  dell ; 
But  the  blue  bosom  of  the  lake  did  bound 
With  rapid  throbs,  when  there  upon  it  fell 
The  victim  and  the  victors.     All  were  drowned  ; 
For  of  this  trio,  never  one  was  found. 
But  some  moons  after,  so  tradition  saith, 
When  Hurons  dared  to  tread  the  tragic  ground, 
They  buried  sundry  implements  of  death, 
Like  those  by  which  some  thousands  since  have  lost  their 
breath. 


WACHUSET 


A    STORY. 


WACHUSET. 


PART    FIRST. 


^  OLUS  slumbers  in  his  mystic  cell ; 

The  Borean  breezes'rest  awhile  from  duty ; 
The  venturous  zephyrs  wander  from  the  dell, 
To  toy  with  Flora  where  she  sits  in  beauty ; 
The  landscape  lies  abloom.     In  fresh  perfume 
The  glad  hours  woo  and  wonder  all  the  day ; 
With  busy  fingers,  in  their  mystic  loom, 
They  weave  the  gorgeous  garlands  for  the  rosy-favored  May. 


46  WACHUSET. 

Above  the  rivers,  above  the  rills, 

Above  the  slopes  of  the  wooded  hills 

Whose  green  waves  roll  with  a  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

Where  the  bald  cliffs  cleave  the  tender  sky, 

And  the  gray-grown  rocks  like  sentinels  stand 

Over  the  belts  of  the  busy  land, 

While  rigid  and  cold  and  stern,  they  view 

Alike  the  storm  and  the  summer  blue, 

I  stood  ;  and  gazing  down  the  vale, 

Listened  to  the  simple  tale 

That  now  I  tell. 

'Twas  summer-time, 
When  all  the  days  ai'e  full  of  rhyme, 
When  zephyrs  fan  the  forest  bowers,  — 
The  choral  halls  of  plumed  throats,  — 
When  the  humbird  kisses  the  flushing  flowers 
With  giddy  delight,  and  the  nectar  sips 
From  their  voluptuous,  pouting  lips  ; 


WACHUSET.  47 

When  all  the  voices  of  the  hours 

Are  tuned  to  music  notes ; 
And  along  those  vales  that  slanting  lie 
Under  the  sheen  of  the  summer  sky, 
Embroidered  with  beauty  everywhere, 
And  drinking  light  from  the  amorous  air, 
The  violet  and  the  purple  bell, 
The  clover  blooms  and  daisies  rare, 

Internestling  in  the  light, 
Pant,  as  their  odorous  bosoms  swell 
With  silent  delight,  like  those  who  tell 

Their  loves  in  the  silent  night. 

And  these  are  the  days  of  love  and  bloom, 
The  halcyon  time  of  flushing  youth, 
Who  never  dream  of  the  winter's  gloom, — 
Who  never  dream,  kind  Heaven's  ruth, 
Of  the  visionless  sorrows,  that  one  by  one 
Canker  the  heart  as  life  goes  on  ; 


48  WACHUSET. 

But  blithesome  through  the  summer  way, 
Will  youth  and  pleasure  meet  and  play ; 
And  the  spirits  of  light  and  gentle  love, 
Whose  home  is  the  palpitating  air,  — 
The  invisible  world  about  and  above,  — 
Watchfully  ward  from  the  youthful  heart 
The  evil  wicked  ones  impart ; 
But  the  kelpies  who  love  the  lonesome  ways, 
And  gloat  on  sorrow's  gathering  haze, 
Hide  from  the  flowery  summer's  bloom, 
And  revel  in  the  mountain  gloom. 

A  noble  youth  lived  in  the  vale 

Under  the  frowning  mountain, 
And  his  soul  was  as  grand  as  the  towering  cliff, 

And  as  pure  as  its  crystal  fountain  ; 
And  a  maiden  there  was  who  loved  this  youth, 

And  the  youth  he  loved  the  maiden, 
And  they  flushed  and  thrilled,  yet  never  knew, 
As  on  the  busy  moments  flew, 


WACHUSET.  49 

That  each  with  the  other's  love  was  laden ; 
And  the  voice  of  their  lives  went  to  and  fro, 
Whispering  melodies  soft  and  low, 
But  never  a  syllable  more  than  this, 
Uttered  the  lovers  of  this  sweet  bliss. 

They  climbed  among  the  clefted  rocks 

Where  the  honeysuckles  climb, 
And  tenderly  crowned  each  other's  brows 

With  the  wreaths  of  summer-time  ; 
They  plucked  wild  flowers  from  the  sylvan  bowers, 
And  sheltered  themselves  from  the  thunder-showers 

In  the  caves  of  the  mountain-side, 
And  dreamed  the  fabulous  legends  o'er 
Of  the  barbarous  savage's  mythical  lore 

When  the  warrior  was  in  his  pride. 

The  laughing  water-brook  that  leaps, 
In  gleeful  pranks, 


WACHUSET. 

Adown  the  mountain's  broken  steeps 

And  mossy  banks, 
They  chased  along  the  cedar  maze, 

Listening  to  its  tinkling  lays, 
While  their  hearts'  syllables  kept  time 
To  its  tintinnabulary  rhyme  ; 
For  like  the  brook  the  heart  will  dream 
Till  lost  in  life's  maturer  stream. 
Over  the  meadows,  along  the  rills, 
Or  under  the  rifts  of  the  rocky  hills, 
Or  on  the  lagoons  where  the  lilies  lay, 
Wherever  his  footsteps  led  the  way, 
She  followed  him,  with  never  a  thought 
But  of  the  pleasure  the  present  brought : 
Their  life  was  a  day  with  no  cloud  above, 
Each  day  a  life  of  the  purest  love. 

Thus  hand  in  hand  they  walked  together 
Through  all  the  bloom  of  the  summer  weather ; 


WACHUSET.  5 1 

And  as  the  odor  fills  the  sense, 

Love  filled  their  hearts  with  his  influence ; 

And  they  followed  their  lives  with  a  brook-like  dream, 

Through  many  a  winding  way, 
As  joyous  as  the  mountain  bird 

The  livelong  day  ; 
Nor  ever  there  came  an  evil  sprite, 
Nor  malignant  being  that  haunts  the  night, 

To  whisper  a  wicked  thing; 
For  their  souls  were  as  pure  as  the  ether  light 

In  all  their  wandering. 

And  a  joyous  band  of  spirits  bright, 

Linked  hand  in  hand  together, 
Followed  the  lovers  here  and  there, 
Followed  them  faithfully  everywhere, 

Through  fair  and  stormy  weather ; 
Like  guardian  spirits,  they  watch  and  pray 
Over  their  innocence  night  and  day ; 


52  WACHUSET. 

While  the  light-winged  zephyrs,  with  anxious  care, 
Tenderly  sprinkle  the  happy  pair 
With  incense.     Oh  !  the  days  were  fair  ; 
For  the  odorous  brow  of  the  summer  queen 
Was  pranked  with  beauty,  and  everywhere 
Her  jewelled  blooms  and  garb  of  green 

Swelled  up  in  the  violet  air ; 
And  from  early  morn  till  dewy  eve, 

To  the  beat  of  their  bosom's  rhyme, 
This  web  of  love  the  lovers  weave 

With  never  a  thought  of  time. 

He  was  to  her  as  the  golden  day 

To  the  flushing  flowers, 
Filling  her  life  with  a  summer  way 

Through  all  the  glowing  hours,  — 
Filling  her  soul  with  the  thrill  of  life, 

As  grandeur  fills  the  throne  ; 
He  was  to  her  another  world, 

Its  glory  all  her  own  : 


WACHUSET.  53 

And  she  to  him  as  the  rippling  sea 

To  the  starry  sky  above, 
Holding  his  tremulous  beauty  there 

In  the  depths  of  her  placid  love  ; 
For  as  the  heavens  their  glory  bloom 

Within  the  crystal  tide, 
So  he  in  her :  he  was  her  heaven, 

And  she  his  mirrored  bride. 

So  they  sang  together  the  song  of  life,  — 

The  youth  and  this  matchless  maiden  ; 
And  they  murmured  the  music  of  innocent  love, 
Till  the  very  air  about  and  above 

With  the  odor  of  love  was  laden. 

Oh  !  is  there  above  this  transient  night, 

At  the  going-down  of  time, 
A  dawn  of  life  for  longing  souls 

In  another  youthful  clime, 
Where  youth  and  innocence  dwell,  as  here, 
In  the  summer  of  Love,  where  the  skies  are  clear? 


54  WACHUSET. 


PART   SECOND. 


r  I  ^HE  Borean  bell  has  tolled  the  lowly  vespers 
Of  the  pent-up  winds,  who  pensive  grieve 
In  mournful  sweetness,  while  their  smothered  whispers 

Are  so  softly  breathed  to  summer  eve  ; 
For  whirlwinds,  big  with  power,  await  the  hour 

When  they  shall  burst  their  mountain  bands  asunder, 
And  ravish  Beauty  in  her  blooming  bower, 
And  howl  her  dirge  o'er  hill  and  dale  in  tones  of  mighty 
thunder. 


The  red-lipped  summer  has  ceased  to  smile, 
The  birds  have  forgotten  their  song, 

The  skeleton  forest  is  bloomless,  while 
The  north  wind  cometh  along 


WACIIUSET.  55 

Hoary  and  chill,  o'er  hill  and  copse, 

Like  the  demon  that  blights  our  youthful  hopes,  — 

Hopes  that  bloom  in  life's  summer-time, 

And  wither  beneath  the  winter's  rime. 

'Tis  night,  and  the  night  is  dark  and  chill ; 

There's  a  helmet  of  sleet  on  the  sombre  hill ; 

There  is  storm  above,  there's  foam  below, 

And  the  air  is  oblique  with  cutting  snow ; 

The  clarion  winds,  in  clamorous  notes, 

Are  answered  back  from  the  tongueless  throats 

Which  gape  from  the  cavernous  precipice 

That  pouts  its  lips  for  the  stormy  kiss. 

'Tis  the  noon  of  night,  and  the  creaking  trees 

Are  knelling  the  hour  to  the  boisterous  breeze ; 

And  the  moody  owl,  with  solemn  eyes, 

Has  sheltered  himself  from  the  turbulent  skies, 

In  the  dusky  holes  of  the  cedar-tree, 

And  responds  tu-~juhoo  !  to  the  jubilee. 

Each  answers  the  other  with  right  good  will 


56  WACHUSET. 

From  the  clamorous  air  and  the  groaning  hill ; 
Each  answers  the  other  with  all  his  might, 
Shrieking  and  creaking  the  noon  of  night ! 

And  there  is  a  darksome  demon  clan, 

Who  gloat  on  the  storm  and  shivering  snow, 

Whose  only  joy  is  the  hate  of  man, 

Whose  bliss  is  to  work  him  woe. 
Their  eyes  are  black,  and  their  hearts  are  chill 
As  the  clouds  that  brood  the  dewy  hill ; 
And  they  are  glib,  and  they  are  glad, 

And  have  been  many  a  day  ; 
For  a  blue-eyed  maiden  has  been  sad, 
And  the  kelpies  ken  her  raving  mad, 

As  she  wanders  the  woodland  way. 
And  they  giggle  and  grin  in  mad  delight, 
And  they  harass  her  soul  with  all  their  might, 
And  they  chime  and  chant  to  the  storm-king's  rant, 

In  a  horrible  roundelay. 


WACHUSET.  57 


KELPIES'   CHORUS. 


HARK!  hark!  the  night  is  dark, 
And  the  night  is  chilly  and  drear; 
Mortals  may  dream  by  the  fire's  red  gleam, 

But  never  may  venture  here; 
Yet  we  are  the  demons  who  proudly  dare 
To  brook  the  breath  of  the  stormy  air! 


n. 

Tis  a  gala-night  on  the  mountain's  height, 

Old  Boreas  bellows  with  right  good-will : 

Oh !  never  before  has  the  choral  roar 

Of  the  stormy  minstrels  been  so  shrill ! 

How  the  pines  careen,  with  their  plumes  of  green, 

As  they  bow  to  the  storm  with  a  haughty  mien ! 

How  their  long  trunks  creak  a  staccatoed  shriek, 

To  the  chorus  that  comes  o'er  the  mountain-peak! 

And  the  tenor  that  rolls  through  their  whistling  limbs 

Is  the  wail  of  the  woodland's  chordless  hymns. 


58  WACHUSET. 

III. 

The  earth  is  soaked,  and  the  pathways  choked, 
And  the  fountains  are  seething,  but  not  with  heat; 
Caves  echo  the  tones  of  the  forest  groans, 
And  the  tremulous  boughs  are  bathed  in  sleet. 
How  the  frozen  rain,  with  might  and  main, 
Is  beating  the  boughs  where  the  birds  have  lain ! 
The  gloom  is  our  cheer;  and,  if  mortal  is  here, 
We  will  harass  his  soul  with  a  horrible  fear. 
And  the  visions  that  pass  through  his  wildering  brain 
Are  dark  as  the  phantoms  of  Death's  domain. 

IV. 

Hark!  hark!  the  night  is  dark, 
And  the  horrible  hour  is  full  of  cheer; 
Mortals  may  dream  by  the  red  fire's  gleam, 

But  never  may  venture  here ; 
Yet  we  are  the  demons  who  deftly  dare 
To  buffet  the  breath  of  the  stormy  air. 

The  echoes  of  the  kelpies'  song 
Had  reached  a  gentle  faery  throng ; 
And  quick  as  lightning  cleaves  the  skv, 
Or  thought  from  place  to  place  may  fly, 


WACHUSET.  59 

That  faery  group  stood  hand  in  hand, 
Amid  that  darksome,  demon  band. 
And  as  the  wrong  avoid  the  right, 
Or  gloomy  shadows  flee  the  light, 
The  demons  hide  in  the  humid  hill, 
And  listen  to  the  spirit  trill ; 
For  nymphs  and  fays,  with  voices  rare, 

Joined  in  the  melodie, 
While  echoed  through  the  stormy  air 
The  measures  of  their  minstrelsy. 

The  demon  shadows  deeper  shrink 
Beneath  the  precipice's  brink, 
Till  the  noxious  air  of  the  dank  ravine 
Hideth  all  but  their  ghastly  grin  ; 
While  the  faery  group  in  silvery  vapors 

Down  the  mountain  sways, 
Until  their  graceful  outline  tapers 

To  minuter  ravs. 


60  WACHUSET. 

They  are  hieing  away  through  the  weeping  wood, 
They  are  going  down  on  a  mission  of  good  ; 
For  a  sad  one  is  wandering  through  the  gloom  : 

Zenilla  is  treading  her  wonted  way, 
For  she  has  been  under  the  kelpies'  doom 

For  many  a  darksome  day  ; 
And  there  is  a  stranger  down  in  the  glade, 
Lost  in  the  depths  of  the  cedar  shade. 

A  serpent  path  the  rugged  hill 

Encircles  around  and  about, 
And  the  weary  traveler,  cold  and  chill, 
Has  followed  the  way  with  right  good  will 

Since  the  daylight  hath  gone  out. 
But  wrong  goes  he,  with  eager  rush  : 
The  path  leads  not  to  a  downy  rest, 
But  through  the  fern  and  berry-brush, 
And  tangled  brier  and  twisted  vine, 
Stubbornly,  sternly  crossing  his  line, 

Winds  up  to  the  mountain's  crest. 


WACHUSET.  6l 

lie  is  coming  home  from  a  foreign  land, 

He  is  coming  to  claim  the  plighted  hand 

And  the  heart  that  was  pledged  when  life  was  new, 

If  she,  perchance,  the  affianced  bride, 

Remembereth  the  love  that  time  hath  tried, 

The  love  that  to  her  has  proved  so  true. 

Dull  in  the  darkness  there  was  a  glimmer, — 
The  fox-fire's  phosphorescent  shimmer  ; 
Wherever  he  trod,  the  lambent  flame, 
On  soil  or  sod,  it  went  and  came, 

Flickering,  flashing, 

Leaping  and  lashing 
The  mossy  stone  and  the  wood  decayed ; 
And  it  weirdly,  wildly  danced  and  played, 

Where  his  footsteps  fell, 
Like  a  will  o'  the  wisp  in  the  solemn  dell, 
Flickering,  flashing  all  the  way ; 
But  there  was  no  heat  in  the  cheerless  ray. 


62  WACHUSET. 

Ill  he  rests  his  aching  head,  •    . 

Pillowed  upon  a  stone  ; 
Chill  he  lies,  for  his  cavern  bed 
Is  dark  as  the  land  of  the  silent  dead,  — 
Dark  as  the  tomb  where  dead  men  lay 
In  the  mouldering  coffin  dank  and  gray,  — 

Alone,  alone, 

Under  the  gray  and  the  dripping  stone, 
While  the  moments  fall  from  the  waves  of  time, 
As  falls  the  mist  of  the  winter's  rime. 

But  the  fitful  dreams  that  o'er  him  steal 
In  strange  confusion,  but  dimly  reveal 
The  spirit  war  that  rages  between 
The  cruel  kelpie  and  fairy  queen  ; 
For  fairy  voices  in  music  streams, 
That  never  are  heard  except  in  dreams, 
Feebly,  faintly  rose  and  fell 
So  softly,  the  dreamer  could  scarcely  tell 


WACHUSET.  63 

If  it  was  the  breath  of  a  loved  one's  sigh, 
Or  the  hum  of  a  mother's  lullaby. 

Is  it  a  vision  that  fills  his  brain, 

That  makes  his  heart  to  beat? 
Or  is  he  living  o'er  again 

Those  days  so  passing  sweet? 
He  may  not  tell,  it  is  so  real, 
If  it  is  a  dream  of  the  soul's  ideal, 
For  there  are  times  'twixt  waking  and  sleeping, 
When  the  laggard  will  is  sentry  keeping, 
When  the  spirits  of  light,  who  inhabit  the  air 
In  the  mountains  and  valleys  and  everywhere, 
May  enter  the  mind  with  their  subtle  breath, 
And  paint  the  mystery  of  life  and  death  ; 
While  the  warp  and  the  woof  of  the  present  and  past 

Thrill  the  sense  with  images  vast. 

What  though  his  aching  limbs  are  chilled? 
His  swelling:  bosom  is  tuneful  filled 


64  WACHUSET. 

With  memory's  music  streams  ; 
Now  like  a  waterfall  the  flow, 
Now  like  the  eddy's  whirl  below, 

That  in  the  sunlight  gleams, 
They  whisper  when  his  heart  was  light, 

And  when  his  life  was  new, 
Another  fond  heart  day  and  night 

Beat  with  his  so  true, 
That  did  they  throb  apart  or  near, 

Did  they  beat  in  woe  or  weal, 
But  one  throbbing  could  they  hear, 

But  one  palpitation  feel. 
Yet  a  maiden's  love  may  wax  and  wane : 
Ah  !  is  his  cherished  love  in  vain? 

There's  a  sound  of  music  —  a  plaintive  wail 
Borne  on  the  breath  of  the  reckless  gale  ; 
'Tis  like  the  music  of  many  rills, 
And  its- echo  all  the  cavern  thrills, 


WACHUSET.  65 

And  its  richness  fills  the  traveler's  ear, 

And  he  springs  from  his  couch,  but  not  with  fear. 

Sinking,  swelling,  rising,  falling 

In  its  cadence  sweet  and  low, 
Like  the  hum  of  loving  voices 

He  had  heard  so  long  ago,  — 

Sinking,  swelling,  soft  and  low, 

Like  the  voice  of  long  ago,  — 
It  tells  a  tale  with  sorrow  laden, 
Tells  of  the  grief  of  a  love-lorn  maiden, 
Tells  how  the  heart  of  a  beautiful  one 
By  love  was  made,  by  love  undone. 

Zenilla's  is  that  voice  of  woe  : 

The  kelpies  have  tuned  it  to  the  flow 

Of  their  pitiless  shriek.     They  have  lured  her  away 

From  love  and  bloom  to  the  mountain  gloom, 

Where  the  desolate  shadows  stay  ; 
And  to  and  fro,  through  her  living  tomb, 


66  WACHUSET. 

She  wanders,  heedless  of  all  but  the  song 
Herself  may  sing  of  her  bosom's  wrong, 

When  the  light  of  her  life  went  out ; 
Like  some  sweet  bird  torn  from  its  mate, 
And  fluttering  in  its  prison  grate, 

Knoweth  no  joy  without. 

In  wild  refrain  that  thrilling  strain 

Is  borne  with  frenzied  fleetness  ; 
'Tis  hushed,  and  now  returns  again, 

Smothered  into  sweetness ; 
And  the  song  to  the  traveler's  eager  ear 
Has  shaped  itself  distinct  and  clear, 
And  his  heart  beats  fast  with  the  fresh  blood's  heat, 
And  his  pulses  quicken  at  every  beat ; 
Awake  and  alert  his  sense  may  be, 
But  he  may  not  fathom  the  mystery. 

A  light  in  fitful  flashes 
Streams  into  the  cavern  room, 


WACHUSET.  67 

And  now  the  flame  of  a  flambeau  lashes 

The  quick-retreating  gloom, 
Till  the  hurrying  shadows  fly  with  affright, 
Like  guilty  spirits  that  hate  the  light, 

To  the  deepest  nooks  of  the  cave  ; 
While  glancing  from  each  dripping  stone, 
Fantastic  forms  of  fire-light  shone, 

Like  the  moon  on  a  rippling  wave, 
And  they  lapped  up  the  darkness,  here  and  there, 
Till  the  dewy-walled  cavern  was  all  aglare. 

A  sweet  pale  face,  an  eye  of  blue 
Shyly  peering  the  cavern  through, 
A  queenly  figure,  lithe  and  light, 
Weirdly  outlined  against  the  night, 

Greeted  the  stranger's  vision  ; 
And  he  felt,  as  he  gazed  on  the  image  fair, 
Some  spirit  of  love,  still  draped  in  the  air 

That  fans  the  blest  Elysian, 


68  WACHUSET. 

From  its  ethereal  world  of  bliss 
Had  sought  the  wildest  part  of  this. 

The  maiden  glanced  the  cave  around, 
And  then,  with  measured  move  and  slow, 
As  if  in  fear  of  lurking  foe, 
She  placed  the  flambeau  on  the  ground, 
And,  standing  beside  its  ruddy  blaze, 
She  fixed  on  him  her  searching  gaze. 

"  Stranger,  what  spirit  hath  beguiled 
Thy  footsteps  to  this  mountain  wild? 
Knowest  thou  not  I  am  its  queen, 
And  claim  for  my  realm  its  groves  of  green? 
Comest  thou  from  a  foreign  land,  — 
The  bearer  of  a  court's  command  ? 
Then  vain  the  mission.     No  fealty  I 

To  other  powers  may  own  ; 
Return,  and  take  them  this  reply : 

I  live  and  rule  alone  ! 


WACHUSET.  69 

My  kingdom  is  the  solitude  ; 
My  castle  walls  the  solemn  wood  ; 
The  ivied  cliff,  my  throne." 

The  stranger  marked  the  wild  unrest 
That  rankled  in  the  maiden's  breast, 
And  kindly  spoke  :  "Love's  guiding  star 
Hath  led  me  to  these  wilds  afar, 
To  seek  my  childhood's  home  ; 
To  dwell  again  beneath  its  skies, 
And  from  the  light  of  lovelit  eyes 
No  more  to  roam." 

"  This  dreary  wild  and  mountain  glade 

But  ill  befit  so  fair  a  maid : 

Come,  breathe  to  me  thy  bosom's  woe  ; 

Whisper  softly,  and  tell  me  low, 

Of  thy  days  of  love,  thy  days  of  bloom, 

Ere  first  thy  footsteps  sought  this  gloom, 


WACHUSKT. 

And  I  will  listen  till  the  morrow's 

Breaking  bid  me  go,  — 
With  no  thought  of  gentle  slumbers, — 
Listen  to  the  mournful  numbers 

Of  the  grief  that  fills  thee  so. 
Tell  me,  maiden,  of  thy  sorrows 

In  the  days  of  long  ago." 

"  Love  !  it  is  a  gentle  word, 
The  sweetest,  mortal  ever  heard, 

But  it  has  come  too  late  ; 
And  yet  it  traces  on  my  soul 

The  picture  of  a  fairer  fate  : 
For  the  odor  fills  the  blossom 

When  its  leaves  are  crushed  and  torn  ; 
So  the  yearning  of  my  bosom 

Is  not  gone. 

I  thank  thee  for  that  blessed  word  ; 
It  wakes  the  echo  of  music  heard 


WACIIUSET.  71 

When  life  was  in  its  May. 
Thou  seemest  like  a  star  to  me, 
That  hath  left  the  blue  where  the  angels  be 

To  light  my  lonely  way 
To  thy  beautiful  home  in  the  world  above, 
And  lead  me  again  to  youthful  love. 

"  What  boots  it  to  me,  if  they  call  me  crazed, 

Down  in  the  world  of  fashion  ; 
If  they  secretly  hint  that  my  soul  is  behazed 

WTith  a  love-lorn  fantasy's  passion,  — 
With  a  fancied  love  of  a  heartless  one, 
Who  hath  my  trusting  heart  undone? 

For  they  whisper  about 
That  the  idol  of  my  childhood's  dream 
Hath  put  the  light  of  my  reason  out. 

"  I  may  not  tell  of  that  bliss  divine 
That  thrilled  this  pliant  heart  of  mine, 


73  WACHUSET. 

When  in  the  days  of  long  ago 

It  flushed  with  beauty  from  above, 

And  revelled  in  a  world  of  love  ; 

But  of  the  word  that  worked  this  woe, 

And  drove  me  here,  is  thine  to  know." 


WACHUSET.  73 


PART    THIRD. 


mounts  his  car,  and  Boreas  fills 
With  furious,  howling  storms  the  earth  and  ocean, 
And  drives  Collina  from  the  trembling  hills, 
To  gaze  with  wonder  at  the  strange  commotion ; 
For  ocean,  hill  and  plain  must  feel  the  bane 
Of  storm  and  tempest,  as  in  wild  elation 
Their  reckless  arms  do  strive  with  might  and  main 
To  strew  the  fresh  and  blooming  earth  with  ghastly  desola 
tion. 


LiKe  the  whirlwind  laden  with  sweet  perfume, 
Like  a  warrior  maiden  in  virgin  bloom, 
Like  the  altar  destroyed  by  its  own  incense, 

5 


74  WACHUSET. 

Was  this  dual  influence 

On  the  wondering  traveler's  awakened  sense  ; 
With  half  of  gladness,  half  regret, 
Since  first  the  vision  he  had  met ; 
And  the  lonely  night  went  moaning  along, 
While  he  listened  to  her  song,  — 
Listened  to  the  mournful  numbers 

Of  her  sorrows  one  by  one, 
With  never  a  thought  of  gentle  slumbers, 

As  the  night  went  sighing  on. 


Oh  !  why  should  I  attempt  to  hide 
The  sin  of  an  angry  father's  pride, 
When,  disobedient  to  his  word, 

A  loved-one  was  adored  ? 
I  would  that  I  was  spared  the  tale 

That  wrings  my  bosom  so  ; 


WACIIUSET.  75 

Alas  !  it  will  not  now  avail, 

And  yet  the  words  will  flow. 
I  know  not  why  this  night  should  bring 
Again  those  days  of  suffering ; 
Yet  something  prompts  me  to  relate 
The  story  of  my  love  and  hate. 

It  was  the  word  of  a  hoary  sire 

That  set  my  loving  heart  on  fire,  — 

A  cruel  father's  act,  that  wrung 

The  tendrils  of  my  love  divine, 

That  to  its  idol  fondly  clung ; 

That  wound  around  that  sacred  shrine, 

As  round  the  oak  the  ivy-vine. 

My  darling,  he  said,  was  mean  and  low, 

Without  a  name  or  wealth  or  show,  — 

A  beggar,  boor,  unfit  for  me, — 

And  never  could  rise  to  my  degree ; 

As  if  he  knew  that  heart's  deep  quiver 


76  WACHUSET. 

As  well  as  I  who  dwelt  there  ever ! 

As  if  a  world  of  wealth  were  weighed 

Against  the  heaven  that  love  had  made  ! 

I  heeded  not  the  pitying  hours 

That  tallied  on  my  soul  its  doom ; 

I  recked  not  of  the  pitiless  powers 

That  penned  me  in  a  dungeoned  room. 

I  felt  not,  saw  not,  neither  heard, 

For  my  heart-strings  were  strained  to  breaking  ; 

And  since  he  spoke  that  angry  word, 

My  eyes  scarce  rest  from  constant  waking. 

I  fled,  I  know  not  how  or  when, 

To  wild  Wachuset's  wildest  glen, 

And  in  its  gloom,  with  solemn  vow, 

I  gave  to  grief  my  heart  of  woe. 

I  stood  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 
Above  the  world  I  once  had  blest, 
And  overlooked  the  lawn  where  lay, 


WACHUSET.  77 


In  silvery  sheen, 
Adown  the  valley  far  away,  — 
As  fair  as  when  I  was  its  queen. — 
My  father's  cottage  on  the  green. 
I  hurled  my  malediction  dire 
Upon  my  hoary,  hated  sire  ! 
A  parent  curse  !     Why  should  I  not? 
By  him  upon  himself  'twas  brought : 
He  hurled  my  reason  from  its  throne, 
And  with  it  went  a  daughter's  love. 
A  will,  to  all  but  me  unknown, 
Was  left,  —  a  will  that  none  could  move. 

Burned  in  my  heart  prophetic  fire, 
That  took  possession  of  my  breath, 
And  prompted  me  to  curse  the  sire 
Who  gave  me  life,  who  gave  me  death. 
Scarce  the  malison  was  uttered, 
Ere  the  distant  thunder  muttered 


\VACIIUSET. 

A  rumbling  answer  to  my  will, 

Then  boomed  along  the  trembling  hill  ! 

And  the  valley  below,  that  a  moment  ago 

Slept  in  the  sunshine  warm, 
Now  frightened  lay,  draped  in  the  gray 

Of  the  shadow  of  the  storm. 
And  the  spectre  clouds,  in  angry  strife, 
Like  demons  who  haunt  a  broken  life, 
Rose  and  fell  in  the  frantic  sky, 
To  the  clang  of  the  tempest's  fearful  cry  ; 
While  down  below,  in  a  world  of  woe, 
The  forest  by  the  river's  marge, 
Like  an  armed  host,  swayed  to  and  fro, 

Bracing  for  the  charge. 
Brighter  the  serpent  lightning  shone, 
And  louder  swelled  the  thunder's  tone, 
Till  flash  on  flash  so  sudden  came, 
The  hill  was  wrapped  in  sheet  of  flame. 


WACHUSET.  79 

Then  came  a  voice  from  the  surging  deep, 

That  drowned  the  thunders  with  its  roar ; 

And  every  cave  and  craggy  steep 

Flung  back  the  echoes  they  could  not  keep, 

And  opened  their  hungry  mouths  for  more  ; 

As  my  bosom  opened  to  a  father's  bane, 

Then  madly  hurled  it  back  again. 

It  was  the  blast  of  the  whirlwind's  breath,  — 

The  whirlwind  savage  and  sore, 
That  rides  on  the  horrible  steed  of  death, 

From  the  bergs  of  the  borean  shore. 
And  he  ravished  the  hill  with  frightful  roar, 
And  glutted  the  air  with  clamorous  notes, 
Till  wild  confusion  did  outpour 
From  the  mountain's  thousand  throats  ! 
And  the  giant  trees  affrighted  rose, 

And  in  the  whirlwind  eddied, 
And  rocks  were  torn  from  the  repose 
Where  they  for  ages  had  been  bedded ! 


80  WACHUSET. 

I  gazed  upon  the  whirlwind's  might, 
And  smiled  exulting  at  the  sight, 

And  unappalled  saw, 
Uprising  in  the  stormy  foam, 
And  madly  lashing  the  murky  dome, 
The  furious  fragments  of  that  home 

That  I  should  know  no  more ! 

But  why  should  I  again  rehearse 
The  horrors  of  that  frenzied  curse,  — 
That  day  of  anguish,  day  of  doom  ? 
For  all  my  kith,  and  all  my  kin, 
Bowed  to  the  whirlwind's  wrath,  and  in 

Its  vortex  found  a  tomb  ! 
But  I  never  could  have  borne  the  blame, 
I  never  could  have  borne  the  sorrow, 
I  never  could  have  brooked  the  shame, 
But  that  I  felt,  upon  the  morrow, 
My  soul's  fond  idol  would  come  to  claim 


WACHUSET.  8 1 

The  heart  that  for  him  had  drunk  such  horror. 

Still  that  morrow  never  came, 

Still  I  nurse  my  bosom's  flame. 

And  many  a  night  since  then  I've  passed, 

When  loudly  wailed  the  tempest's  blast 

Upon  the  rock  where  then  I  stood, 

Upon  the  spot  from  whence  I  viewed 

That  direful  scene, 
Which  ghastly  desolation  brought 
Upon  my  happy  childhood's  cot, 
That  erst  lay  sunning  on  the  green. 

Oh !  what  is  this  that  thrills  me  so, 

Like  joy  and  sorrow  blended  ? 
And  what  is  this  that  whispers  low, 
With  the  tender  voice  of  long  ago, 

My  day  of  doom  is  ended? 
Is  it  a  vision  thou  hast  wrought 
That  thrills  me  with  the  during  thought 


WACHUSET. 

That  thou  art  he?     O  God,  the  bliss, 
The  bursting  bliss,  that  floods  my  soul,  — 
That  brings  such  ecstasy  as  this  ! 
O  rapturous  love  !  O  sweet  desire  ! 
Returning  Reason's  radiant  light, 
That  kindles  my  thraldom's  gloomy  pyre,  - 
That  breaks  upon  my  bosom's  night, 
And  drowns  my  senses  in  delight ! 


WACHUSET.  83 


CONCLUSION. 


r  I  "HE  kelpies  are  silent  within  the  earth, 

In  the  watery  caves  that  gave  them  birth, 
And  the  fairies  are  singing  their  sweetest  lays 

All  along  the  lonesome  ways. 
The  snows  are  feeding  the  verdured  plain, 
And  the  spring  is  climbing  the  slopes  again, 
To  scatter  the  winter  from  the  hills 

Where  erst  were  frowning  skies  ; 
For  the  sunshine  all  the  valley  fills, 

That  once  was  full  of  sighs, 
And  it  daintily  dots  the  sombre  shade, 

Under  the  forest  trees, 
Leaping  so  cheerily  over  the  glade, 
Where  the  buttercups  bend  to  the  breeze, 
Down  in  the  grass  in  the  diamond  dew, 


84  WACIIUSET. 

On  the  rippling  rill  on  its  silver  spray, 
Tinging  all  with  a  golden  hue, 
And  scattering  diamonds  all  the  way,  — 
Over  the  earth  and  through  the  air, 
Scattering  diamonds  everywhere. 
And  while  the  blast  of  the  winter  goes, 
The  balmy  breath  of  the  summer  blows, 
Odored  with  richness,  filled  with  the  tale 
Of  love  that  blooms  in  the  sleeping  vale  ; 
While  over  the  lawn  and  over  the  lea, 
Where  Beauty  is  dancing  full  of  glee, 
The  noble  youth  and  the  matchless  maiden 
Revel  again  in  true  love's  Aiden. 


THE    SONG   OF   LIFE: 


INNOCENCE;    PLEASURE;   AMBITION;   FRUITION. 


THE     SONG     OF     LIFE. 


INNOCENCE. 


',  IGH  above  the  music  of  the  soul, 


p)  When  life's  fair  morn  upon  the  world  is  dawning, 

There  is  a  spirit-bell's  prophetic  toll :    • 
"  One  life  only  !  "  is  its  mystic  warning. 
Oh !  is  there  not  a  power  can  stay  the  hour, 
Or  give  us  other  life  in  full  reality  ? 
A  food  for  each  desire  is  Nature's  dower ; 
Then  why  not,  for  the  yearning  soul,  responsive  immortality  ? 


38  THE    SONG   OF    LIFE. 

By  the  cradle's  side  there  stood 
A  mother  fondly  smiling, 

As  her  infant  child  she  viewed 

(In  a  loving  mother's  mood), 
Thus  the  hours  beguiling  ; 

For  this  new  life  filled  her  sense 

With  a  holy  influence. 

Gazing,  dreaming,  dreams  of  fame 
Flash  upon  her  feeling, 

Lighting  up  the  vestal  flame  ; 

But  the  bosom  hath  no  name 
For  this  rich  revealing 

Of  its  bliss,  —  this  new  creation 

Of  her  fond  hope's  culmination. 

Oh  !  maternal  love  is  deep 

As  the  flowing  river  ; 
Swelling  tide,  but  never  neap, 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE. 

Swelling  onward,  it  will  keep 

Swelling  on  for  ever. 
Blighted  hopes  her  path  may  strew  ; 
Still  a  mother's  love  is  true. 

JVbiu  the  mother's  heart  is  rife 

With  the  rising  bliss  : 
"  Ere  he  sees  another  life," 
(If  he  conquer  in  the  strife,) 

"  He  shall  be  great  in  this." 
And  the  swelling  that  is  dwelling 
In  her  heart,  this  tale  is  telling. 

Hope  inspired,  she  ponders  never 

On  the  mystic  warning ; 
Yet  that  life  is  fleeting  ever, 
Like  the  mist  upon  the  river, 

Like  the  dews  of  morning  : 
Still  the  infant's  innocence 
Is  a  mother's  recompense. 
6 


9O  THE    SONG    OF    LIFE. 

Mother's  love  !  oh,  blessed  spirit, 

Flowing  like  the  river  ! 
More  than  token  of  our  merit, 
Best  of  all  that  we  inherit 

From  the  blessed  Giver  ! 
Love  and  mother !  treasure-laden, 
They  can  make  this  earth  an  Aiden. 

Reckless  Change  !  O  dull  Decay  ! 

Are  ye  never  sated  ? 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Bow  we  to  thy  cruel  sway, 

Through  ages  still  undated  : 
Say,  is  there  no  peaceful  haven 
Where  thy  deeds  are  never  graven  ? 

Love  is  blooming  in  her  heart, 

Flushing  it  with  gladness  : 
Cherish  well,  with  cunning  art, 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE.  9! 

Well ;  but  love  and  life  must  part, 

Changing  all  to  sadness  ! 
O  Love  !  O  Life  !  so  fondly  mated, 
Are  ye  never  consecrated  ? 

By  the  cradle's  side,  in  grief, 

Sits  a  mother  weeping. 
Grief!     It  is  a  sweet  relief, 
Mourning  for  a  life  so  brief, 

Mourning  for  the  sleeping. 
Hath  the  bud  a  future  bloom  ; 
Hope  dispels  the  bosom's  gloom. 

Still  a  mother's  love  is  deep 

As  the  flowing  river ; 
Swelling  tide,  but  never  neap, 
Swelling  onward,  it  will  keep 

Swelling  on  for  ever. 
Though  her  sorrows  come  anew, 
Still  a  mother's  love  is  true. 


92  THE    SONG    OF    LIFE. 

Knelling  to  her  soul,  again, 
Comes  the  solemn  story : 

"  One  life  only  !  "    Just  begun  ? 

Heaven,  oh,  let  the  goal  be  won  ! 
Else  where  is  thy  glory  ? 

Life  unlived  !     Then  Hope's  blest  light 

Faintly  gleams  beyond  the  night. 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE.  93 


PLEASURE. 


T  TIGH  above  the  music  of  the  soul, 

When  life's  bright  morn  is  to  its  zenith  swelling, 
"  One  life  only  ! "  cometh  like  the  toll 
Of  funeral  bell,  the  dirge  of  Childhood  knelling. 
O  Youth  !  and  must  there  be  no  life  for  thee, 
Of  blessed  peace,  beyond  the  turbid  river? 
Is  all  this  flush  of  innocence  to  be 

A  solemn  blank  upon  the  page  of  Destiny  for  ever? 


Oh  !  the  morn  of  life  is  bright 

As  the  blooming  flowers. 
Beamy  Day  may  laugh  at  Night ; 
Yet  the  sum  of  life  will  blight 


94  THE    SONG   OF   LIFE. 

Childhood's  rosy  hours. 
O  Love  !  O  Life  !  so  fondly  mated, 
Are  ye  never  consecrated  ? 

Youth  may  plant,  but  Time  will  frost 

Every  fading  flower ; 
Youth  may  hope,  but,  tempest-tost 
On  the  shoals,  the  bark  is  lost,  — 

Lost  the  fleeting  bower 
Of  their  bosom's  earthly  treasures,  — 
Bubble  joys  and  phantom  pleasures. 

Sad  the  hour  that  Pleasure  brings, 

At  her  final  meeting ; 
Sad  the  song  Experience  sings, 
Sadder  still  regret,  that  wrings 

Hearts  with  high  hopes  beating, 
For  the  knell  of  each  to-morrow 
Tallies  on  the  soul  a  sorrow. 


THE    SONG   OF   LIFE.  95 

Still  the  morn  of  life  is  bright 

As  the  blooming  flowers  ; 
Beamy  Day  may  laugh  at  Night ; 
Yet  the  sum  of  life  will  blight 

Childhood's  rosy  hours. 
O  Love  !  O  Life  !  so  fondly  mated, 
Are  ye  never  consecrated  ? 

Still  that  fearful  threnody 

Comes  in  solemn  numbers  : 
"  One  life  only  ! "     Oh  !  for  thee, 
Blooming  youth,  and  can  there  be 

No  voice  to  break  thy  slumbers?  — 
To  call  thee  to  some  higher  station, 
For  thy  life's  continuation  ? 


96  THE    SONG    OF    LIFE. 


AMBITION. 


TIGH  above  the  music  of  the  soul, 

That  thrills  the  noon  of  life  with  wild  elation, 
When  fierce  Ambition,  eager  for  the  goal, 
Goads  on  its  votaries  to  the  wished-for  station, 
There  comes  a  plaintive  wail  that  makes  us  quail : 
"  One  life  only  !  "  breaks  upon  our  di'eaming. 
O  human  Power !  O  Fame  !  and  will  ye  fail 
To  crown  us  with  that  fadeless  crown  that  erst  was  brightly 
gleaming? 


There  are  castles  in  the  air, 

Beckoning  us  to  glory  ; 
Blooming,  bright  and  wondrous,  where, 
If  our  footsteps  wander  there, 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE.  97 

We  may  write  our  story  ; 
But  many  paths,  through  mazy  ways, 
Lead  us  from  the  castle's  rays. 

Where  the  warrior  rushes  are 

Fields  of  battle,  gory  ; 
And  the  crown  he  gathers  there 
Is  the  guerdon  of  Despair, 

Gemmed  with  Sorrow's  story. 
Life  for  life  !     He  takes  away 
That  he  never  can  repay. 

And  the  miser's  hoarded  gold 

Clogs  his  weary  hours  ; 
'Tis  for  this  his  soul  is  sold  : 
Rust  and  ruin,  cankering,  mould 

All  his  manly  powers. 
Till  his  sordid  life  is  done, 
Mammon  is  his  Eidolon. 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE. 

And  the  anxious  poet,  gloating 

On  his  soul's  ideal, 
Of  the  present  makes  no  noting,  — 
Heedeth  not  the  pleasures  floating 

Down  among  the  real. 
May  he  never  grasp  the  treasure 
Which  his  spirit  strives  to  measure? 

Hope  will  lead  us  on  and  on, 
Through  life's  mimic  gladness. 

When  the  day  of  bloom  is  done, 

When  the  fancied  goal  is  won, 
Cometh  the  night  of  sadness. 

Starless  night  beyond  the  tomb  ? 

Heaven  forfend  the  fearful  doom  ! 

Still,  beneath  Ambition's  load, 
Fostering  gathering  sorrows, 
We  plod  the  joyless,  fabulous  road, 
Heeding  not  the  cruel  goad, 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE.  99 

Through  all  the  rayless  morrows. 
Heaven,  is  not  the  soul's  ideal 
Found  in  thee  a  treasure  real? 

Still  the  votaries  of  glory 

Tread  the  thorny  way. 
When  life's  winter  finds  them  hoary, 
If  the  trumpet  tell  their  story, 

It  is  ample  pay  ; 
But  ne'er  comes  the  full  fruition 
Of  their  sibylline  ambition. 

Still  the  temple  fades  away 

From  each  fevered  vision  ; 
Every  step  our  feet  may  stray, 
Every  turn  and  every  way, 

Leads  us  from  Elysiun  ; 
Yet  with  earnest,  mad  intent 
Toil  we,  till  our  life  is  spent. 


IOO  THE    SOXG    OF    LIFE. 

Still  the  castles  in  the  ail 

Beckon  us  to  glory, 

Blooming,  bright  and  wondrous,  where, 
If  our  footsteps  wander  there, 

We  may  write  our  story. 
Yet  the  many  mazy  ways 
Lead  us  from  the  castle's  rays. 

Still  that  song  is  murmured  on, 

Mocking  our  ambition  : 
"  One  life  only  !  "     It  is  gone, 
And  the  fame,  so  dearly  won, 

Lost  in  airy  vision. 
O  Hope  !  O  Life  !  so  sadly  mated, 
Are  ye  never  consecrated? 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE.  IOI 


FRUITION. 


T  TIGH  above  the  music  of  the  soul, 

When  our  hearts  are  sad  and  heads  are  hoary, 
That  plaintive  murmur  cometh  like  the  toll 
Of  funeral  bell,  —  the  knell  of  human  glory  : 
"  One  life  only  !  "     Is  that  life  completed? 
All  things  must  have  an  end  that  are  begun  ; 
Have  we  no  spirit-life.     Time  hath  not  meted? 
O  Heaven  !  where  is  thy  glory  if  that  goal  is  never  won  ? 


From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

The  path  is  paved  with  sorrow  ; 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Man  will  make  himself  a  slave 


IO2  THE    SONG    OF    LIFE. 

To  each  coming  morrow, 
Striving  for  that  phantom  treasure 
Which  his  soul  may  never  measure. 

For  the  fame  Hope  pointed  to 
Mocks  our  toil  and  trouble  : 
'Tis  the  mirage  that  we  pursue, 
And  the  temple  is  not  true, 

Now  a  broken  bubble  ; 
Tell  us,  Fame,  where  is  thy  bliss 
In  a  changing  world  like  this? 

Where  the  crown  for  which  we  strove  ? 

Where  thy  promised  glory? 
Where  the  life  and  precious  love 
Which  our  earnest  bosoms  wove 

In  thy  flattering  story? 
O  Love  !  O  Life  !  so  sadly  mated, 
Are  ye  never  consecrated? 


THE    SONG    OF    LIFE.  103 

All  the  deeds  that  we  have  done 

The  ebbing  soul  revulses. 
Ere  the  game  of  life  is  won, 
The  leaden  blood  is  creeping  on 

Through  our  leaden  pulses  ; 
Stolid  apathy  is  hushing 
All  the  burdened  bosom's  gushing. 

The  time  is  o'er,  the  day  is  past, 

The  heart  has  ceased  its  quiver ; 
That  which  blooms  must  fade  at  last ; 
On  the  Shore  we  stand,  aghast, 

And  launch  upon  the  River ! 
Eternal  river  shall  it  be  ? 
Sailing  on  a  senseless  sea? 


High  above  the  music  of  the  soul, 

That  warms  our  youth  and  fires  our  manhood's  bloom, 

And  high  above  the  thrilling  tones  that  roll 


IO4  THE    SONG    OF    LIFE. 

Prophetic  warnings  of  that  fearful  doom 
Of  dull  decay  that  knells  us  to  the  tomb, 
There  is  another  Voice  whose  accents  fire 
In  holier  ecstasy  our  life's  desire. 
It  is  the  ritornel  of  God's  decree,  — 
The  glorious  song  of  Immortality  ! 
O  blessed  Hope,  in  every  bosom  planted ! 
O  blessed  Song,  to  every  bosom  chanted 
By  angel  voices,  through  the  shadowed  way 
That  leads  to  fairer  clime  and  brighter  day,  — 
That  fills  us  with  this  sense  of  joy  supernal, 
That  first  and  last  our  life  is  One,  Immortal  and  Eternal ! 


PICTURES    IN   THE    SKY. 


PICTURES    IN   THE   SKY. 


PART  FIRST. 

i  NDER  the  dome  of  the  summer  blue 
A  fleecy  cloud  floated  in  azure  dew, 
Moving  along,  by  the  breezes  fanned, 
Like  a  sylph  of  light  in  fairy-land. 

'Twas  the  radiant  queen  of  a  kingdom  rare, 
That  coursed  thi-ough  the  calm  of  the  upper  air, 
Throned  in  a  temple  of  diamond  mist, 
Which  the  wooing  heaven-wind  tenderly  kissed  ; 
And  above  and  about,  with  banners  bright, 
Lay  the  pavilions  of  liquid  light. 


IO8  PICTURES    IN    THE    SKY. 

Her  gai'ments  were  fringed  with  a  golden  blaze ; 

And  the  delicate-tinted  purple  rays. 

That  blended  the  folds  of  her  snowy  dress, 

Softened  the  whole  to  loveliness  ; 

And  the  dewy  shadows,  that  went  and  came, 

With  the  luminous  air  were  all  aflame. 

Upon  her  brow  was  a  radiant  crown 
Of  every  jewel  that  man  has  known  ; 
And  all  the  glory  the  sunset  brings 
To  beautiful  shapes,  and  all  sweet  things 
That  people  the  air  of  the  azure  deep, 
Passed  like  a  pageant  of  gentle  sleep. 

And  out  in  the  valleys  of  golden  dew, 

Margined  with  forests  of  every  hue, 

Lay  the  lakes  and  the  lilied  lagoons. 

That  swelled  to  the  light  like  silvery  moons, 

While  many  a  fair  isle  daintily  gave 

Its  amber  leaves  to  the  purple  wave  ; 


PICTURES    IN    THE    SKY.  ICK) 

And  the  shimmering  rivers  and  sparkling  rills 
Leaped  from  the  rocks  of  the  ruby  hills  ; 
While  the  gorgeous  landscape,  all  aglow 
With  the  light  that  was  its  life  and  show, 
Floated  along  in  the  azure  skies, 
Like  a  dream  of  the  poet's  paradise. 

The  sky  was  flecked  with  a  fleecy  throng, 
Drinking  life  as  they  moved  along, 
Sporting  around  in  luminous  rings, 
Dissolving  again  to  shapeless  things  ; 
Then,  bursting  into  the  amber  light, 
They  strewed  the  way  with  jewels  bright. 

They  brought  rare  flowers  from  the  aether  bowers, 

And  sifted  them  down  in  haloed  showers ; 

And  they  wove  the  ruby  vines  between 

The  templed  altars  of  their  queen  ; 

And  every  obeisance  they  made,  it  won 

A  different  robe  from  the  setting  sun. 


IIO  PICTURES    IX    THE    SKY. 

And  they  scattered  the  daisies  and  lily-bells, 

Plucked  from  the  empyrean  dells, 

About  and  before  the  imperial  throne, 

Where  the  jeweled  pavement  with  splendor  shone 

And  there  was  a  fountain  of  sapphire  spray, 

Sprinkling  its  brilliancy  all  the  way. 

And  there  was  one  of  princely  mien, 
Who  guarded  with  care  his  royal  queen  ; 
And  save  a  gleam  of  silvery  hue 
That  traced  his  outline  upon  the  blue, 
The  stately  knight  was  dark  and  gray 
As  the  heavy  mist  of  a  winter  day. 

Yet  his  bosom  heaved  with  royal  pride, 

Like  the  eager  swells  of  the  coming  tide, 

As  he  twined  the  wreaths  she  was  proud  to  wear 

In  the  liquid  folds  of  her  golden  hair ; 

But  across  her  bosom's  voluptuous  swell 

His  ominous  shadow  darkly  fell. 


PICTURKS    IN    THE    SKY.  Ill 

And  the  maiden  queen,  with  never  a  thought 
Of  the  beautiful  things  the  sunset  wrought 
To  people  her  realm,  nor  the  fading  day, 
That  with  her  glory  must  pass  away, 
Nestled  herself  on  his  sombre  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  goes  to  its  evening  nest. 


112  PICTURES    IN    THE    SKY. 


PART   SECOND. 


T  TNDER  the  dome  of  the  summer  blue, 

Under  the  land  of  golden  dew, 
In  the  far-down  horizon's  line  of  gloom, 
The  king  of  the  tempest  mocked  this  bloom  ; 
And  a  frowning  host,  with  warlike  mien, 
Menaced  the  realm  of  the  lightsome  queen. 

And  that  host  came  up  on  the  rising  gale, 

Clad  in  the  robes  of  steely  mail ; 

Out  of  the  gloom  where  the  thunders  groan, 

Scaling  the  crags  of  the  misty  zone, 

With  banners  and  foaming  steeds,  they  came, 

And  their  lances  wei'e  made  of  the  lightning's  flame. 

And  they  rose  and  fell  in  the  murky  deep 
To  the  boom  of  the  thunder-guns,  that  keep 


PICTURES    IN    THE    SKY.  113 

The  echoing  clouds  repeating  it  where 
They  press  through  the  palpitating  air , 
Surging  and  seething  and  swelling  through 
The  foamy  way  to  the  dome  of  blue ! 

And  there  was  a  charger  with  flowing  mane 
And  reeking  sides,  that  led  the  train  ; 
And  his  stately  rider,  the  king  of  the  gale, 
With  a  burnished  crest  and  a  silver  mail, 
Proudly  rose  to  the  shimmering  light, 
Like  the  phantom  form  of  a  demon  knight. 

And  that  feathery  cloud,  —  that  midnight  stain, — 

Half-hid  in  the  depths  of  the  surging  rain, 

Now  rolling  with  such  a  voluptuous  swell 

Into  the  light,  and  down  the  dell 

Of  dismal  clouds,  is  the  queen  of  that  king 

Who,  conquering,  rides  on  the  tempest's  wing. 

The  ravaging  army  came  on,  amain, 

Till  they  reached  the  zenith,  —  a  clamorous  train,  — 


114  PICTURES    IN    THE    SKY. 

Drinking  the  dews  of  the  fairy  land, 
Destroying  all  with  the  ruthless  hand 
Of  a  vandal  horde,  while,  under  all, 
The  delicate  rain-drops  gently  fall. 

They  have  compassed  the  queen  and  her  retinue, 
They  have  blotted  her  bloom  from  the  dome  of  blue  ; 
Her  kingdom  is  dark  with  the  coming  doom, 
Her  land  of  dew  is  a  land  of  gloom  ; 
And  a  muffled  murmur  of  wild  despair 
Runs  through  the  ranks  of  the  ravenous  air. 

And  the  stately  knight  who  plighted  her 
When  draped  in  golden  gossamer, 
When,  all  abloom,  she  shared  her  throne 
And  her  maiden  love  with  him,  is  flown. 
Out  in  the  surge  of  the  shadowy  way, 
He  is  mocking  the  love  of  a  fairer  day. 


PICTURES    IN    THE    SKY. 

The  battle  is  past,  and  the  freshening  shower 

Has  sprinkled  a  diamond  in  every  flower ; 

And  that  luminous  circle  that  spans  the  sky, 

Like  a  bow  of  promise  to  all  that  die, 

Is  to  the  queen  a  crown  more  true, 

That  never  was  seen  when  the  skies  were  blue. 


'Tis  thus  we  are  pressed  in  the  battle  of  life, 
'Tis  thus  we  are  compassed  about  with  strife  , 
While  love  and  glory,  and  all  things  fair, 
Are  swept  away  like  a  world  of  air ; 
And  the  fairest  of  all  whose  hearts  are  warm 
Must  bow  to  the  blast  of  Death's  wild  storm. 

And  when  the  battle  of  life  is  o'er, 
And  the  beautiful  earth  is  ours  no  more, 


Il6  PICTURES    IN   THE    SKY. 

May  we  not  find,  in  some  rainbowed  bovver, 

A  perishless  diamond  in  every  flower ; 

And  a  fadeless  crown  of  every  hue, 

That  never  was  seen  when  life's  skies  were  blue? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


DREAM-WORLD. 


HEN  soft  slumber  hushes  the  soul  in  repose, 
And  the  curtain  unfolds  where  the  dream-world 

glows, 

And  the  phantoms  of  fancy,  with  strange  behests, 
Move  solemn  and  slow,  like  funeral  guests,  — 
Then  above  and  about  there's  a  mystic  gleam, 
Like  the  flash  of  the  stars  on  a  rippling  stream  ; 
There's  a  moment  of  darkness,  a  silence  intense, 
And  the  glory  of  Eden  entrances  the  sense. 


1 2O  DREAM-WORLD. 

Then  we  wander  away 

To  the  woodland  hill, 

And  bathe  in  the  spray 

Of  the  mountain  rill ; 

And  rest  in  the  shades 

Of  the  odorous  grove, 

Where  all  is  as  pure 

As  the  spirit  of  love,  — 

Where  the  sunlight  sleeps 

In  a  sparkling  tide, 

In  the  floral  halls 

Of  the  mountain-side,  — 

Where  the  west  wind  gathers 

The  breath  of  the  flowers, 

And  wafts  the  perfume 

Through  the  greenwood  bowers,  — 

Beneath  the  green  oak's  leafy  dome, 

Through  the  sunny  hours, 

We  make  our  home, 


DREAM-WORLD.  121 

And  trace  the  labyrinths,  under  the  trees, 
With  the  Dryades. 

Ages  seem  rolling  by, 
Dim  to  the  sense  ; 
Measureless  treasures  lie 
Through  the  immense 
Of  delight ;  to  the  sight, 
Brighter  the  vision  grows, 
Clearer  Elysian  flows, 
As,  in  soft  slumbers,  Time  numbers  the  night. 

Then  the  soul  is  filled 
With  a  new  desire, 
With  the  musical  thrum 
Of  Collina's  lyre, 
And  the  pagans  that  come, 
In  ravishing  notes, 
From  the  plumy  throats 
8 


122  DREAM-WORLD. 

Of  the  mountain  choir  ; 
And  the  varied  voice 
Of  the  balmy  breeze, 
Humming  its  murmur 
Among  the  trees, 
Wafts  them  away 
Where  the  echoes  stay, 
Whispering  melodies  all  the  way. 

Then  away  from  the  mountain, 

Away  from  the  hills, 

To  the  foamy  fountain 

Of  many  i-ills, 

Where  the  sunbeams  glance 

On  the  silvery  sea, 

And  the  nereids  dance 

To  the  melodic 

Of  the  wind-harp's  swelling, 

That  never  is  hushed 


DREAM-WORLD.  1 2^ 

In  its  billowy  dwelling  ; 
Singing  so  sprightly, 
Floating  so  lightly, 
Over  the  waves  of  the  silvery  sea. 

Then  down  through  the  tide, 

To  the  coral  grove, 

Where  the  solemn-eyed  fishes 

In  unrest  rove, 

To  the  twilighted  halls 

Of  the  coral  caves, 

Deep  under  the  surge 

Of  the  wayward  waves, 

To  Doris'  dominions, 

Down  under  the  waves. 

There,  in  the  coral  glades 

Under  the  sea, 
In  the  soft  twilight's  shades 

We  shall  be  free, 


1 24  DREAM-WORLD. 

With  the  bright  water-sprite 
Seeking  new  pleasures  where 
Thetis'  treasures  are, 
Under  the  billows  and  pillows  of  light. 

Then  the  columns  of  coral 
Will  throw  back  the  ray, 
Through  the  sea-valleys  floral, 

And  halls  of  the  fay. 
Then  upward  we  sweep, 
From  the  waveless  deep, 
Where  the  storms  are  torpescent, 
And  the  waters,  quiescent, 
In  solitude  sleep. 

On  winged  lightnings  flying, 
We  heavenward  rise, 

Ecstatic,  erratic, 

Up-scaling  the  skies. 


DREAM-WORLD.  125 

Here  we  see  Purity 
In  beauty  dwelling  where, 
(Happiness  quelling  care,) 
Nothing  can  ever  dissever  the  free. 

Still  onward  and  upward, 

Through  the  azure  of  night, 
To  the  realms  of  Urania,  — 

Her  palace  of  light ; 
Baptizing  the  soul 

In  its  magical  flight, 
In  the  tremulous  comet's 

Electrical  light. 

Thus  purified,  soar 

To  a  region  of  glory, 
Surpassing  the  more 

Modest  bloom  of  Aurora, 
To  a  region  so  measureless, 


126  DREAM-WORLD. 

Astrea  with  thee, 
Leaving  the  treasureless 

Earth  and  the  sea, 
For  the  bosom  of  love 

Where  the  loved  ones  be. 

Here  we  find  those  we  knew 

When  life  was  gay, 
Ere  death  had  ventured  to 

Snatch  them  away. 
Now  will  thy  spirit  sigh 
In  the  re-union  thrill, 
With  sweet  communion,  till 
The  dawn  of  the  morn  leads  us  down  from  the  sky. 

Suddenly  changing,  they 

Fade  from  the  sight : 
Gone,  like  a  cloud,  away 

Is  our  delight. 


DREAM-WORLD.  127 

Lethe's  stream  drowns  the  dream, 

Yet  Memory  treasures  all, 

Till  we  the  pleasures  call, 
And  from  Elysian  the  vision  redeem. 


THE   MOONLIGHT   SERENADE. 


"nRWAS  a  bliss  sublime, 

In  the  olden  time, 
When  the  lover  was  suffered  his  love  to  tell, 

To  list  to  the  chime 

Of  the  music  and  rhyme 
That  came  from  the  love-song's  ritornel ; 
And  nought  was  so  sweet  to  the  Spanish  maid 
As  the  song  of  the  moonlight  serenade. 

How  the  maiden  sighed 
As  her  lover  hied 


THE    MOONLIGHT    SERENADE.  129 

To  the  open  casement,  or  lattice  bower ! 

It  was  sweet  to  her  soul, 

The  erotic  roll 

Of  fervor  that  flowed  from  his  wild  guitar ; 
But  many  a  maiden  has  been  betrayed 
By  the  song  of  the  moonlight  serenade. 

There's  a  legended  tale, 

How  a  father  did  wail 
And  weep  for  the  loss  of  Zetella,  his  child. 

She  was  beauteous  and  fair, 

But  too  fond  of  night-air, 

When  its  waving  vibrations  with  music  was  wild  ; 
For  a  gnome  was  the  lover  who  sang  and  played 
The  song  of  the  moonlight  serenade. 

And  nightly  there 
Resounded  the  air 
With  the  mystic  melody  love  will  inspii'e  ; 


130  THE    MOONLIGHT    SERENADE. 

The  gnome  he  played, 

And  Zetella  prayed 
For  the  kind  consent  of  her  aged  sire  ; 
But  the  sire,  alas !  was  not  to  be  swayed 
By  the  song  of  the  moonlight  serenade. 

One  night,  when  the  moon 

Had  vanished  too  soon, 
Thus  sang  the  weird  gnome :  "  Zetella  dear, 

Oh  !  come  with  me 

Far  over  the  sea, 

And  we  of  thy  sire  shall  have  nothing  to  fear, 
For  I  will  be  with  thee  :  then  be  not  afraid, 
For  love  is  the  burthen  of  my  serenade. 

"  There  is  untold  worth 
In  the  vaults  of  earth, 

And  beauties  that  fade  not  away  with  time  ; 
And  we'll  banish  woe 
From  our  home  below, 


THE    MOONLIGHT    SERENADE.  13 

And  thou  shalt  be  queen  over  all  the  clime. 
Then  haste  thee  away."     Zetella  obeyed 
The  gnome,  and  his  moonlight  serenade. 

Then  her  beauty  did  fade, 

For  her  home  was  made 
Deep  down  in  the  earth  in  the  sunless  cells, 

Where  love  cheers  not 

The  crystalline  grot, 

In  a  dark,  dank  region  where  love  never  dwells  ; 
And  she  found,  too  late,  she  had  been  betrayed 
By  the  song  of  the  moonlight  serenade. 

Now,  maidens,  beware 

How  you  breathe  the  night-air, 
When  there  floats  on  its  bosom  your  own  bosom's  sigh, 

Or  you'll  feel  the  keen  smart 

Of  a  wound  in  your  heart, 

Which  you've  no  way  to  heal  but  to  lie  down  and  die  ; 
For  many  a  maiden  has  been  betrayed 
Bv  the  song  of  the  moonlight  serenade. 


AUTUMN'S     LESSON. 


THE 


leaves  are  falling, 
And  summer  flowers 
Have  ceased  to  blossom 

In  summer  bowers, 
And  the  zephyrs  no  more  dully 
With  the  lilies  of  the  valley. 
With  the  peonies  and  pansies, 
With  the  buttercups  and  daisies, 
In  the  groves  and  in  the  mazes 
Of  the  meadow  ;  but  the  weary  wind  is  sighing, 
Through  all  the  trembling  trees, 


AUTUMN  S    LESSON.  133 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

With  a  fearful  prophesying 

Of  the  dying  summer  day  ; 

And  the  ominous  scarlet  blaze 

Of  the  fading  forest  trees 

Is  the  robe  of  solemn  Death, 
As  he  rides  upon  the  melancholy  breeze, 

And  the  misty,  feathery  haze 

Is  his  breath, — 
Is  the  winding-sheet  of  Summer,  sunny  Summer  ; 

And  the  mellifluous  notes 

That  were  welling  from  the  throats 

Of  the  polyphonian  choir, 

That  made  the  violet  air 

So  palpitate  with  music, 

Now  are  silent.     Everywhere 
Is  swelling  the  knelling  of  the  Summer's  sunny  hours. 

I  feel  the  solemn  warning, 
I  hear  the  hollow  moan 


134  AUTUMN'S  LESSON. 

Of  the  never-weary  wind, 

With  its  mournful  monotone  ; 
And  I  listen  to  the  humming, 

As  the  ehorclless  anthem  rolls  ; 
And  I  listen  to  the  thrumming 
Of  the  lyre  of  the  ghouls, 
As  it  tells  of  decay,  — 
As  it  tallies  on  our  souls 
Ever}'  moment  passed  away. 
Oh  !  is  there  not  a  flower  that  can  stay? 
Not  a  leaf,  not  a  spray, 
That  shall  weave  a  summer  way, 
Full  of  beauty,  full  of  bloom, 
Through  the  weary  winter's  gloom  ? 
Oh  !  must  the  north  wind's  breath 
Scatter  death, 
Scatter  doom, 
Scatter  all  our  hope  of  life, 
In  the  strife, 


AUTUMN'S  LESSON.  135 

As  it  hurries,  thus,  the  living  to  the  tomb?  — 
Hurries,  thus,  the  Summer  and  her  flowers, 
To  the  shadow  of  the  never-counted  hours? 

Then  a  spirit,  that  is  keeping 
Solemn  vigils  in  my  bosom,  with  its  weeping, 
Seems  to  say, 

"  Thou  art  hasting,  thus,  away, 

In  thy  dreaming,  to  the  tomb  ; 

Passing,  like  the  fading  flowers, 

That  ne'er  again  shall  bloom 
In  summer  bowers. 
Thus,  too,  there  may 

Be  sorrow,  grief,  and  sighing 

When  thou  shalt  pass  away  ; 

When  the  ties  of  earth  are  broken, 
And  the  loved  ones  of  thy  bosom  shall  appear, 

And  offer  the  last  token 
Of  their  love,  and  gather  round  thy  bier, 


136  AUTUMN'S  LESSON. 

Moaning,  weeping,  sighing, 
When  thou  shalt  pass  away,  —  art  dying,  — 
Never  to  see  again  the  day  for  ever ! 

But  the  storms  of  winter  go, 

And  the  sun  will  melt  the  snow ; 

There  is  music  in  the  air, 

There  is  beauty  in  the  bowers,  — 

Song  and  beauty  everywhere 

Woven  in  the  sunny  hours  ; 

And  the  May-time  comes  again, 

With  all  her  smiling  train 

Of  animated  life, 

Banishing  the  sighing,  banishing  the  strife, 
Waking  all  the  legions  of  the  ernbryotic  flowers, 
Waking  into  living  all  the  flowers  and  the  trees, 

And  the  voices  of  the  breeze 

Are  merging  into  murmurs  of  delight ; 

They  are  whispering  their  plight, 


AUTUMN'S  LESSON.  137 

Through  all  the  glowing  hours,  — 
Through  the  silence  of  the  night,  — 
To  the  budding  and  the  bursting  of  the  flowers, 

From  earth  and  skies 

Thanksgivings  rise, 
For  that  blest  law  that  God  doth  give, 
That  all  may  die  to  live. 

Shall  not  I  as  well  as  they? 
Then  a  spirit  that  is  dwelling 
In  my  bosom,  with  its  swelling, 

Seems  to  say, 

"  From  the  darkness  of  the  tomb 
(Inevitable  doom), 
All  life  shall  bloom  again, 
Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  pain, 
Free  from  the  north  wind's  breath, 
Free  from  the  blight  of  death, 
In  a  sweet  May-land  above 
9 


138  AUTUMN'S  LESSON. 


All  the  threatening  of  the  night, 
And  the  yearning  after  light, 
Above  life's  chilling  snow, 
Above  the  bosom's  woe, 
Where  thy  spirit  shall, 

Shall  inherit 

All  the  fragrance  of  that  flower  that  the  angels  christen 
love." 


I  D  Y  L  I  A. 


T'VE  built  my  love  a  bower  on  the  lawn, 
And  I  have  sprinkled  roses  on  the  roof, 
And  thyme  upon  the  floor,  and  since  the  dawn, 
Have  wove  the  honeysuckle  in  the  woof. 

And  now  arises  on  the  waving  air 
The  sweet  perfume  of  morning's  dewy  breath, 
While  I  am  watching,  from  love's  rosy  lair, 
To  see  Idylia  tripping  o'er  the  heath. 

She  promised  she  would  meet  me  at  the  bower ; 
She  promised,  too,  that  it  should  not  be  late  ; 
Yet  I've  been  mourning  through  this  weary  hour, 
As  mourns  the  turtle  for  his  tardy  mate. 


140  IDYLIA. 

A  light  step  trips  along  the  dewy  hill, 
A  sweet  voice  echoes  o'er  the  sunny  lea : 
I  know  it  by  its  ever-merry  trill ; 
I  know  the  echoes  by  their  tones  of  glee. 

And  she  has  hastened  till  her  face  is  flushed 
With  softest  tints  of  morning's  rosy  glow  ; 
The  lark  is  still,  the  linnet's  voice  is  hushed, 
To  hear  awhile  such  rapturous  music  flow. 

Besprinkled  o'er  her  brow  of  pearly  white, 
The  pouting  drops  of  crystal  lie  at  rest, 
And  sparkle  in  the  rainbow-tinted  light, 
Like  diamond  dew  upon  the  lily's  crest. 


"  Ah  !  I  have  waited  here  for  thee  so  long, 
And  I  have  listened  for  thine  airy  tread, 
And  I  had  thought  to  chide  thee  when  that  song 
Of  gladness  from  thy  rosy  lip  had  fled. 


IDYLIA.  141 

"  Come  rest  thee  now  within  this  fragrant  bower ; 
Come  wreathe  thy  tiny  fingers,  love,  in  mine, 
As  I  have  wreathed  the  roses  for  this  hour, 
While  deeming  every  robin's  note  was  thine. 

"  Come,  twine  thy  tresses  round  my  bosom,  love, 
And  lay  thy  head  where  it  so  often  lies, 
That  I  may  watch  the  tangled  hues  above 
Reflected  in  the  depths  of  thy  blue  eyes." 


C  A  M  B  A  H  E  E. 


"F^VOWX  upon  the  dancing  river, 

Cambahee, 
Dwelt  together  I  and  Eva 

Happily ; 

Other  bliss  we  never  sought, 
Of  no  other  pleasures,  thought, 
Than  to  know  two  loving  souls, 

Full  of  glee, 
Dwelt  together  on  the  shoals 

Of  Cambahee. 


CAMRAIIEE. 

But  a  sad  and  solemn  order 

Came  to  me 
From  the  chieftain  of  the  border 

Of  the  sea. 

In  the  land  where  Eva  dwelt, 
Tyrant  Saxon  swords  were  felt : 
Kisses,  then,  and  tears,  from  Eva 

Flowed  as  free 
As  the  ripples  of  the  river 

Cambahee. 

By  my  side  the  youthful  braves 

Fought  and  fell, 
Till  the  blood,  like  water-waves, 

Drenched  the  dell. 
Onward  rushed  the  foemen  strong, 
Treading  to  the  battle-song, 
Till  I  feared  that  my  sweet  Eva, 
Far  from  me, 


144  CAMBAIIEE. 

Would  be  driven  forth  for  ever 

From  Cambahee. 

'Mid  the  carnage,  dust,  and  smoke, 

There  was  one, 
Strange  and  wild,  whose  ready  stroke 

Praises  won ; 

And  when  foemen  round  me  pressed, 
Blows  were  broken  by  the  breast 
Of  that  strange  one  :  it  was  Eva  ! 

Woe  is  me ! 
Love  is  lost,  and  joy  for  ever, 

On  Cambahee ! 


THE    TEAR-SPIRIT. 


T   CAME  when  the  night-bird  was  singing 

Her  song  in  the  dell, 
And  Echo  was  busily  flinging 
The  notes  where  the  tomb-spirits  dwell, 
In  their  sepulchre-cell, 
When  the  old  church-bell  was  ringing 
So  solemn,  and  mournfully  bringing 
On  my  spirit  a  mystical  spell. 
'Twas  the  church  where  Minora  was  wedded, 
Where  the  warp  of  his  love  was  threaded 
With  the  woof  of  his  bride's,  and  well ; 
The  bell  that  chimed  his  knell, 


146  THE    TEAR-SPIRIT. 

That  tolled  when  Minora  was  bedded 
In  the  earth,  where  every  one  dreaded 
To  look  in  his  sepulchre-cell, 
To  bid  him  a  final  farewell. 

m 
Then  I  sat  down  in  sorrow  beside  it,  — 

In  grief,  beside  his  cold  grave. 

My  sorrow,  I  wished  not  to  hide  it ; 

My  anguish,  I  scarce  could  abide  it ; 

And  the  tear-drops  my  wan  cheek  did  lave 

The  grief-token,  how  could  I  chide  it? 

So  his  heart,  it  drank  up  the  tear-wave 

That  trickled  down  on  his  cold  grave. 

Then  arose  to  my  vision  a  vapor, 
A  mist  that  came  up  from  his  tomb : 
And  it  came  like  the  flame  of  the  taper, 
The  foxfire  lights  in  the  gloom  ; 
And  it  said,  "  Thy  love  is  requited, 
The  tomb  his  love  has  not  blighted, 


THE    TEAR-SPIRIT.  147 

The  grave  your  loves  cannot  part !  " 
Then  I  knew,  by  my  own  bosom's  swelling, 
The  tomb  is  not  made  for  love's  dwelling, 
The  grave's  not  a  home  for  the  heart, 
And  our  souls  shall  again  be  united 
Where  the  loving  and  loved  never  part. 


FOUR    DEGREES    OF    LOVE. 


T  ASKED  a  prattling  infant,  while  it  played 

Upon  its  mother's  bosom  with  delight, 
And  while  the  golden  tresses  careless  strayed 
Around  its  chubby  shoulders,  pure  and  white  : 
"What  feel'st  thou  for  thy  mother,  gentle  dove?" 
It  smiled  in  innocence,  and  lisped,  "  'Tis  love." 

I  asked  a  beauteous  girl,  as  bright  and  pure 
As  fresh-blown  roses  of  a  summer  day,  — 
Nor  grief  nor  sadness  from  her  eye  could  lure 
A  tear  her  smiling  did  not  chase  away, 


FOUR  DEGREES  OF  LOVE.  149 

For  with  despair  her  youthful  heart  ne'er  strove,  — 
"  What   makes   thee   glad  ?  "      She,   laughing,   answered, 
"  Love." 

I  asked  a  maid,  whose  eye  had  ceased  to  glow, 

Or  light  the  beauty  of  her  faded  cheek, 

While  Melancholy  sat  upon  her  brow, 

And  grief  was  in  her  smile,  —  the  pathway  bleak 

Wherein  with  maiden  fortitude  she  strove, — 

"  What  mars  thy  peace  ?  "     She  faintly  whispered,  "  Love." 

I  asked  a  faithful  wife, — whose  constant  care 

To  cheer  the  loved  one  was  her  greatest  pleasure  ; 

Who  strove  incessantly  that  she  might  share 

That  love  that  was  her  dearest  earthly  treasure, 

For  Virtue  round  their  hearts  her  chaplet  wove,  — 

"  What  sweetens  woman's  toil?"     She  answered,  "  Love." 


THE   POET-ZONE. 


'TOOTLING  in  the  night-time, 

Toiling  by  the  light 
Of  the  taper,  on  the  paper, 

Through  the  weary  night ; 
All  along  the  land-marks, 

Through  the  great  unknown, 
There  the  eager  poet  wanders 

With  his  soul  alone, 
Reaching,  writing,  heart  inditing, 
Weary  waiting  for  the  lighting 
Of  the  poet-zone. 


THE    POET-ZONE. 

Down  among  the  karl-kings 

Of  the  humid  earth, 
Where  the  fountain  of  the  mountain 

Had  its  primal  birth  ; 
Up  among  the  star-lights, 

Glinting  in  the  blue, 
Roving  through  the  rainbows 

Of  supernal  dew, 

Seeking  treasure  for  his  measure,  — 
Seeking  evanescent  pleasure,  — 
In  the  poet-zone. 

Raving,  in  his  unrest, 
With  delicious  pain, 
Embryotic  thought,  erotic, 

Rushes  through  his  brain  ; 
And  the  taunting  soul-guide, 

Wayward  ciceron', 
Toles  the  tireless  spirit  where 


152  THE    POET-ZONE. 

Pierian  pearls  are  strown, 
To  the  ages  of  the  sages, 
Of  the  antiquated  pages 

Of  the  poet-zone. 

Striving  for  the  soul-thought 

Burning  in  his  brow, 
Barely  breathing,  rarely  wreathing, 

Rhyme  and  rhythm  flow ; 
And   with  hurried  heart-beats, 

Rolling  one  by  one, 
Weaves  the  mystic  monologues 

In  a  monotone ; 
Culling  any  of  the  many 
Beauties  of  the  miscellany 

Of  the  poet-zone. 


GLOOM   AND   BLOOM. 


^  I  ^HE  day  is  dark,  and  cloud  and  gloom 
Throw  solemn  shadows  in  my  room ; 
The  music  of  the  gentle  rain 
Has  ceased  its  patter  on  the  pane, 
And  shriller  shrieks  and  wilder  song 
Are  swept  by  Borean  winds  along : 
But  still  the  sun  is  shining  high 
Above  the  melancholy  sky. 

The  angry  clouds  are  floating  low ; 
The  woods  are  swaying  to  and  fro  ; 
10 


154  GLOOM    AND    BLOOM. 

A  deeper  gloom,  a  deeper  shade, 
Is  on  the  meadow,  hill,  and  glade  ; 
I  feel,  though  dark  the  shadows  fall, 
My  heart  is  sadder  than  them  all : 
But  still  the  sun  is  shining  high 
Above  the  melancholy  sky. 


DAISY. 


IV  /TY  Daisy  is  a  darling  girl, 

With  heart  so  true, 

And  o'er  her  neck  hangs  many  a  curl 
Of  golden  hue  ; 

And  then  her  eyes,  —  such  beamy  eyes,  — 

As  liquid  as  the  azure  skies, 

And  a  stormy  sparkle  in  them  lies, 

That  thrills  me  through  ; 

But  I'll  not  tell  you  of  the  trance 

She  throws  me  into  with  their  glance. 

Why  should  I,  if  I  could  ?  —  and,  true, 

How  could  I,  if  I  wanted  to? 


156  DAISY. 

My  Daisy's  like  the  little  bird 

That  skims  the  ail' : 
Sure  such  a  voice  was  never  heard,  — 
So  rich  and  rare : 
'Tis  sweeter  than  a  tuned  lute, 
More  liquid  than  the  mellow  flute ; 
And  when  she  sings,  the  lark  is  mute, 
The  linnets  stare  ; 
But  I'll  not  tell  how  full  and  free 
It  warbled  when  she  plighted  me. 
Why  should  I,  if  I  could  ?  —  and,  true, 
How  could  I,  if  I  wanted  to? 

My  Daisy,  she  is  blithe  and  fair, 

And  fresh  and  free, 

And  then  she  has  a  jaunty  air 

That  pleases  me ; 

Her  cheek  is  like  the  dewy  rose, 

Her  teeth  as  white  as  mountain  snows  ; 


DAISY.  157 


Her  limbs  are  lithe,  and  no  one  knows 

So  well  as  she  — 
But  I'll  not  tell  you  of  the  bliss 
That  floods  me  with  her  modest  kiss. 
Why  should  I,  if  I  could?  —  and,  true, 
How  could  I,  if  I  wanted  to  ? 

My  Daisy's  good,  my  Daisy's  true 
As  true  can  be  ; 

Her  love  is  fresh  as  morning  dew, 

And  she  loves  me. 

Modest  as  a  May-night  moon, 

Brilliant  as  the  sun  at  noon, 

I  shall  marry  Daisy  soon, 

And  then  you'll  see  - 

But  I'll  not  give  you  further  sign, 

For  Daisy's  but  a  dream  of  mine. 

Why  should  I,  if  I  could? —  and,  true, 

How  could  I,  if  I  wanted  to? 


NARCISSUS  AND   PHOTOGRAPHY. 


IVTARCISSUS,  one  day, 

As  mythologies  say, 
Was  hunting  a  buck  on  the  bank  of  a  river, 

When,  tired  of  the  chase, 

He  slackened  his  pace, 

And  threw  on  the  turf  his  bow  and  his  quiver, 
And  sat  down  beside  them  on  the  mossy  brink, 
And  leaned  himself  over  to  lave  and  to  drink. 

The  water  was  clear, 
And,  as  he  drew  near, 
Exquisitely  imaged  each  delicate  feature. 


NARCISSUS    AND    PHOTOGRAPHY.  159 

He  was  somewhat  amazed 

At  the  bright  eyes  that  gazed 
From  the  arched  brow  of  a  beautiful  creature  ; 
And  his  wonder  increased  when  he  saw  those  eyes 
Answer  his  glance  with  the  same  surprise. 

The  first  impulse  was  this,  — 

To  snatch  a  sweet  kiss  ; 
Quite  natural,  too,  as  the  liquid  he  tipples ; 

But  his  rosy-hued  lips 

Had  scarce  touched  their  tips, 

When  the  waves  away  darted  in  concentric  ripples, 
And  a  hundred  distorted  faces,  or  more, 
Hurried  away  to  the  opposite  shore. 

Then,  day  after  day, 
He  wandered  away 

To  gaze  at  himself  in  the  beautiful  river : 
'Twas  his  Eden  now, 
And  the  buck  and  the  roe 


l6o  NARCISSUS   AND    PHOTOGRAPHY. 

Needed  no  flight  from  his  bow  and  his  quiver ; 
So  the  silly  youth  strove  to  get  rid  of  himself, 
Just  to  hug  to  his  bosom  his  shadowy  elf. 

Then  he  pined  away, 

For  the  love,  they  say, 
Of  his  own  sweet  self,  who  didn't  return  it ; 

And  he  wept  by  the  side 

Of  the  crystal  tide, 

In  the  hope  that  perhaps  his  devotion  might  earn  it ; 
Till  at  last,  as  he  watched  by  his  shadowy  bride, 
Worn  out  with  the  love  of  himself,  he  died. 

Then  Jupiter,  true 

To  his  subject's  due, 
Changed  the  youth  to  a  beautiful  flower  ; 

And  Apollo  declared, 

If  he  should  be  spared 

An  age  or  two  longer,  'he'd  have  the  power 
To  paint  the  image  of  all  who  may 
Call  upon  him  in  the  proper  way. 


M  Y  R  E  N  E. 


T  HAVE  a  picture  of  Myrene  : 

Fairer  one  was  never  seen. 
Note  the  waves  of  golden  hair 
Creeping  o'er  her  bosom  fair ; 
Mark  the  lustre  of  her  eyes, 
Glowing  like  the  starry  skies,  — 
Eyes  that  seem  communing  now, 
Speaking  from  her  thoughtful  brow, 
Speaking  bliss  no  one  may  tell,  — 
Bliss,  alas  !  I  knew  too  well. 
Though  the  Fates  decree  we  part, 
I  wear  this  image  next  my  heart. 


1 62  MVRENE. 

She  was  fair  to  look  upon 

As  an  houri ;  and  I  won, 

As  the  sunlight  wins  the  dew, 

All  the  love  her  bosom  knew. 

Days  of  joy  went  noiseless  by, 

As  the  twilight  leaves  the  sky. 

When  the  faintest  ray  was  gone, 

Came  the  night  without  a  dawn, 

Shutting  from  my  soul  the  sheen 

Of  the  blue  eyes  of  Myrene  ; 

Yet,  though  for  another  sphere 

She  has  left  me  drooping  here, 

Two  joys  are  mine,  and  they  are  sighs, 

And  gazing  on  her  pictured  eyes. 


SUMMER    MORNING. 


A   LL  hushed  and  still,  the  voiceless  air 

Is  sleeping  in  the  vale  ; 
The  morning  rises  fresh  and  fair, 
Like  a  veiled  nun  from  holy  prayer, 
And  her  dewy  light  is  pale. 


II. 

Aurora  now,  in  robes  of  red, 

And  chariot  of  fire, 
Arises  from  her  azure  bed, 
With  torch  of  flame  by  Phoebus  fed, 

And  lights  the  gloomy  pyre. 


164  SUMMER    MORNING. 

III. 

And,  soaring  up  the  starry  dome, 

Out-blooms  each  starry  ray, 
Proclaiming  from  her  mystic  tome, 
The  glorious  god  of  day  has  come, 
To  chase  the  gloom  away. 

IV. 

The  blushes  on  her  brow  of  light, 

The  crimson  of  her  crest, 
That  lights  the  interlunar  night, 
Are  melting  to  a  pearly  white, 

Adown  the  distant  west. 

v. 

The  summer  sun,  in  mellow  hues, 
The  landscape  now  is  steeping ; 

The  fleet  Aurora  still  pursues  ; 

While  kissing  up  the  crystal  dews, 
The  night-flowers  have  been  weeping. 


SUMMER    MORNING.  165 

VI. 

The  merry  lark,  with  song  of  praise, 

Has  scaled  the  misty  wall, 
And  laves  her  in  the  genial  rays, 
And  sings  her  merry  matin  lays, 

Above  the  floating  pall. 

VII. 

All  nature,  smiling,  ushers  in, 

From  midnight's  silent  sadness, 
The  purple  morn  with  sandals  green, 
The  summer  morn,  so  fair  and  sheen, 

With  notes  of  joy  and  gladness. 


SONGS. 


MUSIC   OF   THE   DRUM. 


i. 


^r  OME,  soldiers,  come  to  the  rolling  of  the  drum, — 


To  the  clatter  and  the  batter  of  the  spirit-stirring 

drum. 

How  the  furious  music  rolls  ! 
How  it  thrills  our  very  souls  ! 
For  there's  battle  in  the  rattle  of  the  drum,  drum,  drum. 


II. 


At  the  rolling  of  the  drum  will  every  soldier  come, 

With  his  palpitating  bosom  keeping  measure  to  the  drum  ; 


17°  MUSIC    OF    THE    DRUM. 

And  every  step  he  takes, 
And  every  move  he  makes, 
Is  responding  to  the  pounding  of  the  drum,  drum,  drum. 

in. 

When  he  bursts  into  the  battle,  and  the  fiery  foemen  come, 
Then  his  feet  are  wafted  onward  by  the  swelling  of  the  drum. 

For  the  soldier's  soul  is  rife 

With  the  warble  of  the  fife, 
And  the  rolling  and  the  trolling  of  the  drum,  drum,  drum. 

IV. 

For  when  he  hears  the  hum  of  the  rapid-rolling  drum,  — 
The  reverberating  rattle  of  the  clamorous  kettle-drum, — 
He  can  brave  the  cannon's  roar, 
He  can  rush  through  fields  of  gore, 

To  the  humming  and  the  drumming  of  the  drum,  drum, 
drum. 

v. 

And  when  the  battle's  ended,  and  the  cannon's  mouth  is 
dumb, 


MUSIC    OF    THE    DRUM.  Ijl 

Then  his  weary  limbs  will  rally  at  the  rattle  of  the  drum  ; 

For  the  wounded  must  be  dressed, 

And  the  lost  be  laid  to  rest 
With  a  muffle  on  the  ruffle  of  the  drum,  drum,  drum. 

VI. 

Then   the   weary   mourners   come   to   the   murmur  of  the 

drum, — 
To  the  sad  and  solemn  measure  of  the  melancholy  drum ; 

When  the  music  sinks  and  swells, 

What  a  world  of  woe  it  tells, 
In  the  surges  of  the  dirges  of  the  drum,  drum,  drum ! 

VII. 

Then  come,  soldiers,  come  to  the  rolling  of  the  drum, 
To  the  clatter  and  the  batter  of  the  spirit-stirring  drum. 

How  the  furious  music  rolls  ! 

How  it  thrills  our  very  souls ! 
For  there's  battle  in  the  rattle  of  the  drum,  drum,  drum. 


THE   OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 


i. 

"\T  THERE  the  land  slopes  down  to  a  little  brook, 

That  prattles  its  way  from  a  sylvan  nook 
In  the  mountain  side  ;  where  the  summer  breeze 
Toys  with  the  leaves  of  the  maple-trees, 
And  the  robin  and  wren,  with  song  ever  new, 
Warble  their  music  the  whole  day  through, — 
Just  over  the  bridge  by  the  old  saw-mill 
Stands  a  little  red  school-house  under  the  hill. 


THE    OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE.  1 73 

II. 

Ah  !  well  I  remember  those  school-day  times, 

When  life  was  a  flow  of  brook-like  rhymes. 

The  house  was  small,  and  the  benches  spare, 

But  those  who  filled  them  were  fresh  and  fair ; 

And  many  a  lesson  my  bosom  took, 

That  was  not  learned  from  the  spelling-book  : 

These  dreams  of  the  past  are  with  me  still, 

That  were  dreamed  in  the  school-house  under  the  hill. 

in. 

Long  years  since  then  have  passed  away, 
And  the  old  school-house  has  gone  to  decay ; 
The  sagging  boards  of  paint  are  shorn, 
And  the  slanting  gables  are  weather-worn  ; 
And  there  are  holes,  in  the  roof  about, 
Where  the  owl  and  bat  go  in  and  out, 
And  that  is  so  sad  to  think  of:  still, 
'Tis  the  same  old  school-house  under  the  hill. 


174  THE    OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

IV. 

As  I  gaze  at  the  house,  all  shattered  and  gray, 
It  beckons  me  up  the  little  foot-way, 
That  once  was  so  pleasant,  now  a  mass 
Of  darnels  and  thistles  and  tangled  grass ; 
So  I  pass,  with  a  shudder,  the  creaking  door, 
And  daintily,  orderly,  cross  the  floor, 
And  glide  to  the  seat  I  once  did  fill 
In  the  little  red  school-house  under  the  hill. 

v. 

Then  scenes  long  past  arise  to  my  view, 
And  the  days  of  my  boyhood  come  back  anew  ; 
And  I  hear  the  buzz  of  the  busy  school, 
And  the  sharp  rat-tat  of  the  master's  rule  ; 
The  classes  come  on  to  the  floor  again, 
With  the  stalwart  boy  at  the  foot,  as  then  ; 
And  again  the  jubilant  voices  fill 
The  little  red  school-house  under  the  hill. 


THE    OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
VI. 

Then  I  play  the  tricks  that  I  used  to  play 
When  the  master's  face  was  turned  away  ; 
And  again,  as  I  stand  at  the  head  of  the  class, 
I  miss  the  word  that  she  may  pass, 
And  I  catch  the  glow  of  her  modest  eyes  ; 
It  is  ample  pay  for  the  quarter's  prize  ; 
She  wins  with  a  blush,  I  lose  with  a  thrill 
Of  pride,  in  the  school-house  under  the  hill. 

VII. 

The  vision  is  over :  the  present  is  here  ; 
I  leave  the  old  seat  with  a  parting  tear, 
For  never  again  will  the  flush  and  prime 
Of  youth  come  back  to  that  golden  time  ; 
The  little  bird's  song  is  a  plaintive  moan, 
And  the  trill  of  the  brook  has  a  solemn  tone  ; 
Yet  memories  prompt  me  to  linger  still 
By  the  little  red  school-house  under  the  hill. 


'75 


176  THE   OLD    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

VIII. 

Like  thee,  old  house,  I  am  shattered  and  gray, 

And  I  wonder,  when  I  shall  pass  away, 

If  ever  a  heart  will  cherish,  for  me, 

Memories  as  dear  as  mine  for  thee. 

I  turn  away,  with  a  last  fond  look 

At  the  green  hill-slopes  and  the  murmuring  brook, 

And  the  crumbling  doors  and  the  rotting  sill 

Of  the  little  red  school-house  under  the  hill. 


THE   SPIRIT-BRIDE. 


i. 
T  WANDERED  forth,  one  starry  night, 

Along  the  woodland  hill, 
Where  Cynthia's  pure  and  placid  light 

Was  glancing  on  the  rill. 
I  trod  alone,  in  pensive  mood, 

The  beamy  water's  side, 
And  saw,  in  that  sweet  solitude, 
My  soul's  ideal  bride. 

n. 

About  her  form,  a  halo  bright 
Of  lucid  radiance  fell ; 


178  THE    SPIRIT-BRIDE. 

As  rays  of  noonday's  streaming  light 

Dart  in  a  darkened  cell. 
I  knew  it  was  a  dream,  and  yet 

I  nestled  by  her  side  ; 
So  happy  I,  that  I  had  met 

My  own,  my  spirit-bride. 

in. 

We  wandered  through  a  summer  way, 

Where  bliss  and  beauty  reign, 
And  revelled  in  that  endless  day 

Beyond  the  land  of  pain. 
"  That  blessed  love  and  glorious  light, 

That  death  cannot  divide, 
Is  all  for  us  beyond  life's  night," 

Thus  said  my  spirit-bride. 

IV. 

We  wandered  through  a  summer  clime, 
W'here  loved  ones  never  sigh  ; 


THE    SPIRIT-BRIDE.  179 

And  as  we  loved  in  childhood's  time, 

So  loved  we  in  the  sky. 
Nor  till  Aurora's  rosy  glance 

The  azure  dome  had  dyed, 
Did  Reason  wake  me  from  the  trance 

And  steal  my  spirit-bride. 

V. 

Was  it  a  fantasy,  —  a  dream,  — 

That  in  my  brain  had  birth, 
And  has  no  type,  and  yet  doth  seem 

As  real  as  the  earth  ? 
I  know  it  was  a  dream,  and  yet 

To  truth  is  so  allied, 
That  I  should  feel  a  keen  regret 

To  lose  my  spirit-bride. 


LOVE'S    SYMBOLS. 


~1  T  7HEN  the  light  breezes  blow, 

So  gentle  and  low, 
Weaving  sweet  melodies  into  the  hours, 

They  breathe  the  perfume 

Of  the  lilies  that  bloom 

In  the  sunlighted  valleys  and  dew-dripping  bowers  ; 
And  they  whisper  to  me  of  a  heart  ever  true, 
As  the  lily  whose  petals  unfold  to  the  dew  ; 
And  that  heart  is  all  mine,  with  its  love  and  perfume, 
Till  the  winds  cease  to  blow,  and  the  lilies  to  bloom. 


LOVE'S  SYMBOLS.  iSi 

II. 

When  the  stars,  rising  bright 

In  the  azure  of  night, 
Smile  sweet  on  my  soul  from  their  blue  homes  above, 

I  read,  in  their  sheen, 

Of  a  beautiful  queen, 

Whose  heart  is  a  kingdom  of  ravishing  love  ; 
And  that  kingdom  and  queen,  and  that  heart  ever  true 
As  the  glow  of  the  stars  in  the  fathomless  blue, 
In  the  bloom  of  their  beauty  for  ever  are  mine, 
Till  the  sky  fades  away,  and  the  stars  cease  to  shine. 

in. 

When  the  sun,  riding  high 

In  the  luminous  sky, 
Is  pledging  the  earth  with  his  amorous  fire, 

And  the  flowers  and  the  trees, 

As  they  bend  to  the  breeze, 
Drink  life,  light,  and  beauty  with  ardent  desire, 


1 82  LOVE'S    SYMBOLS. 

They  tell  of  a  heart  that  is  true  to  its  own, 
As  the  earth  to  the  sun  since  the  sun  ever  shone  ; 
And  that  heart,  with  its  life,  light,  and  beauty,  is  mine, 
Till  the  earth  lose  her  bloom,  and  the  sun  fails  to  shine. 


EMBLEMS   OF   LIBERTY. 


i. 

\   LL  hail  to  the  nation  whose  freemen  and  foemen 

Are  bound  by  the  deeds  that  our  fathers  have  done ! 
Where  the  voice  of  the  lord  is  the  voice  of  the  yeomen, 

Whose  million  of  bosoms  are  beating  as  one  ! 
And  blest  be  those  heroes  whom  fondly  we  cherish, 

Whose  blood  set  the  seal  on  the  hearts  of  the  free ! 
And  this  seal  of  our  liberty  never  can  perish 

While  the  monarch  that  rules  is  the  vox  populi. 

ir. 

Wave,  flag  of  our  freedom  !  thy  bright  stars  shall  glimmer, 
A  type  of  the  time  of  our  liberty's  might ; 


184  EMBLEMS    OF    LIBERTY. 

And  the  sheen  of  their  glory  shall  never  grow  dimmer 
While  their  prototypes  smile  in  the  azure  of  night. 

And  the  stripes?     Ah  !  each  ominous  stripe  is  a  token 
Of  terror  to  all  who  may  dare  to  invade  ; 

For  this  union  of  bosoms  can  never  be  broken, 
These  emblems  of  liberty  never  will  fade. 

in. 

And  beauty  is  bright  in  this  land  of  our  glory, 

Where  honored  and  blest  are  the  idols  of  love, 
As  placid  and  pure  as  the  blush  of  Aurora, 

And  chaste  as  the  cherubs  that  hover  above. 
Oh  !  each  sentry-arm  is  a  guard  to  its  treasure ; 

Each  heart  is  a  home  that  is  true  to  its  own. 
Love,  union,  and  liberty !     Time  cannot  measure 

This  trine  of  our  nation  of  many  in  one. 

IV. 

And  here  are  the  hills  that  from  ocean  to  ocean 
Reach  up  to  the  sky,  and  partake  of  its  sheen  ; 


EMBLEMS    OF    LIBERTY.  185 

While  the  rivers  and  brooks  hum  the  country's  devotion, 
Through  the  grain-gleaming  valleys  that  slumber  between  ; 

And  these  mountains  and  valleys  and  rivers  we  cherish, 
As  emblems  of  union  that  never  shall  wane  ; 

And  as  soon  will  these  types  of  our  liberty  perish, 
As  this  land  of  our  glory  be  severed  in  twain. 


12 


THE   TEMPLE   OF   BEAUTY. 


i. 

T  HAVE  found  out  the  Temple  of  Beauty ; 
I  have  seen  where  fair  Innocence  dwells, 
Where  Virtue  holds  sentinel  duty 

O'er  the  passions  that  Love  never  quells ; 
And  nought  can  compare  with  that  palace, 
Where  modest-eyed  Innocence  dwells. 

n. 
I  found  out  this  truth  by  a  token,  — 

A  token  that  beamed  from  thine  eye,          * 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  BEAUTY.  187 

When  the  throb  of  thy  bosom  had  woken 
The  love  that  came  forth  on  a  sigh  ; 

And  no  language  was  ever  yet  spoken 
That  with  that  soft  language  can  vie. 

in. 
Idylia's  that  Temple  of  Beauty  ; 

Its  vestal,  her  virtue  divine  ; 
And  I'll  sacrifice  love,  as  a  duty, 

At  the  shrine  of  this  loved  one  of  mine ; 
It  is  more  than  the  pleasure  of  duty 

To  bow  to  so  holy  a  shrine. 

IV. 

She  is  fair  as  the  flowers  that  blossom 
In  the  reign  of  the  rosy  May-queen  ; 

That  bloom  on  the  beautiful  bosom 
Of  the  May,  in  her  mantle  of  green  ; 

That  embroider,  with  harmonied  garlands, 
Her  vesture  of  velveted  green. 


iSS  THE    TEMPLE    OF    BEAUTY. 

V. 

Like  the  language  these  flowers  have  spoken 
Is  the  voice  of  her  being  to  me, 

And  remembrance  remains  as  a  token 
Of  bliss  that  for  ever  shall  be  ; 

And  the  love-tie  shall  never  be  broken 
That  binds  my  beloved  to  me. 


LINDEN   BOWERS. 


i. 

r  I  "HERE  is  a  gently  flowing  stream 

Among  the  linden  bowers  : 
Its  depths  are  full  of  floating  green, 

Its  banks  are  fringed  with  flowers  ; 
And  by  this  stream  there  is  a  way,  — 

A  pleasant  path  along,  — 
And  every  day  comes  Emma  May 

To  cheer  it  with  her  song. 
I  love  this  little  maiden  too, 

As  she  trips  through  the  grove  ; 
But  then  I  could  not  tell  her  so, 

Thousrh  it  should  win  her  love. 


•  9°  LINDEN    BOWERS. 

II. 

Her  heart  is  true,  her  eyes  are  blue 

As  is  the  azure  sky  ; 
Her  lips  are  like  the  rose's  hue  ; 

And  then  I  heard  her  sigh, 
And  sing  a  gentle  love-refrain, 

The  airy  little  elf, 
I  know  she  loves  me  back  again, 

And  keeps  it  to  herself. 
I  gaze  on  her  with  fond  delight, 

She  looks  so  shy  at  me  : 
.    Oh  !  isn't  this  the  saddest  plight 

In  which  two  hearts  could  be  ? 

in. 

The  humbird  does  not  fear  to  tell 
How  much  he  loves  the  flowers  ; 

The  soft  winds  kiss  the  lily-bell, 
Through  all  the  summer  hours  ; 


LINDEN    BOWERS. 

And  then  how  well  the  cooing  dove 

Can  win  his  loving  mate  ! 
While  we  must  shun  each  other's  love 

Till  it  will  be  too  late. 
But  she  and  I  will  sigh  and  sigh, 

And  make  this  world  so  bleak, 
I  wish  that  either  she  or  I 

Was  bold  enough  to  speak. 


THE  PICTURE  THAT  HANGS  ON 
THE  WALL. 


/^\UR  Lily  was  fair  as  a  fairy, 

As  modest  and  meek  as  a  dove, 
As  placid  and  pure  as  a  peri, 

But  her  heart  it  was  fuller  of  love. 
Ah  !  merry  was  she  as  a  swallow, 

And  her  smile  it  was  sweeter  than  all 
The  smiles  that  the  painter  Apollo 

Ever  pencilled  to  hang  on  the  wall. 


THE    PICTURE    THAT    HANGS    ON   THE   WALL.  193 

II. 

Then  we  trimmed  up  her  bonny  brown  tresses, 

While  her  dimples  sunk  down  in  a  smile  ; 
Dressed  her  up  in  the  best  of  her  dresses, 

And  laughed  at  her  glee  all  the  while. 
And  we  called  her  our  sweet  little  swallow, 

The  bonniest  beauty  of  all, 
And  we  smiled  as  the  painter  Apollo 

Traced  her  picture  to  hang  on  the  wall. 

HI. 

But  Lily  grew  pale,  just  to  teach  us 

That  heaven  had  a  claim  on  its  own  ; 
And  we  feared  that  the  duplicate  features 

Of  Lily  would  soon  be  alone. 
Then  her  eye  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter ; 

And  her  voice  lost  the  trill  in  its  call ; 
So  we  blessed,  then,  Apollo  the  painter, 

For  the  picture  that  hangs  on  the  wall. 


194  THE    PICTURE    THAT    HANGS    ON    THE    WALL. 

IV. 

Now  Lily  lies  under  the  roses, 

That  wearily  wave  at  her  head  ; 
But  she  heeds  not  that  where  she  reposes 

Is  chilly,  for  Lily  is  dead : 
And  this  picture,  that  never  may  perish, 

Is  all  that  is  left  of  her,  —  all ; 
And,  oh,  how  the  image  we  cherish 

Of  Lily,  that  hangs  on  the  wall ! 


THE  JUNE   AND   THE   MOON. 


tr  I  "*WAS  a  summer-night  moon. 

And  the  month  was  June, 
The  daisies  wei'e  hiding  their  heads  in  the  grass, 

When  I  plighted  my  love, 

In  the  moon-lighted  grove, 
To  Mary,  the  rosy-cheeked  lass. 

As  the  day  she  was  bright, 

And  as  fair  as  the  night 
Over-sprinkled  with  stars  ;  but  the  charm 

Of  the  hour  to  me 

Was  the  bonny  blue  e'e 
Of  the  maiden  that  hung  on  my  arm. 


196  THE  JUNE    AND    THE    MOON. 

II. 

I  spoke  of  the  boon 

That  some  moon-lighted  June 
Should  grant  me,  and  prayed  that  the  time  might  be  nigh. 

She  smiled,  and  said, 

As  she  turned  her  head 
And  roguishly  gazed  in  my  eye,  — 

"  The  June  is  here, 

And  the  moon  shines  clear  "  — 
I  kissed  off  the  sentence  with  glee. 

Since  then  many  Junes, 

And  many  fair  moons, 
Have  smiled  on  my  Mary  and  me. 


TEMPUS     FUGIT. 


i. 

FUGIT  !     Let  it  fly  : 
What's  the  use  of  whining? 
Better  far  to  laugh  than  cry, 

Or  always  be  repining. 
Why  regret  the  passing  year  ? 

The  world  is  what  we  make  it, 
And  Time  will  always  bring  us  cheer, 
If  we've  the  heart  to  take  it. 


198  TEMPUS    FUGIT. 

II. 

Tempusfugit !     More's  the  need 

That  we  watch  the  treasure  ; 
Ever}7  moment  brings  its  meed 

Of  profit  and  of  pleasure. 
Let  us  bear  with  toil  and  care? 

The  world  is  full  of  beauty,  — 
Peace  and  plenty  everywhere,  — 

If  we  do  our  duty. 

in. 
Tempusfugit  I    Day  by  day, 

Never  once  receding, 
Let  us  follow  in  the  way, 

This  great  lesson  heeding,  — 
Never  weary  :  time  goes  on, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shadow ; 
Onward  you,  till  you  have  won 

The  wished-for  El  Dorado. 


TEMPUS    FUGIT. 


IV. 


I99 


Tempus  fugit !    No  delay 

For  your  sighs  and  sinnings  ; 
If  you  linger  by  the  way, 

You  will  miss  the  innings. 
Then  be  noble,  just,  and  true  : 

You  will  never  rue  it ; 
The  world  will  be  the  better,  too, 

That  you  have  once  passed  through  it. 


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